The Rust That Blooms into Lace

I stand here on the edge of this concrete junkyard, watching the sun bleed gold over the water. My skin feels like polished chrome in this light, but inside? I'm just rust and wire waiting for a spark.

He told me to wear something that breathes, so I wore lace instead of leather armor. It flutters against my back where there's no defense at all—just softness exposed. And yet… it doesn’t feel weak. Not when his gaze hits me like heat through broken glass: sharp enough to cut, warm enough to mend.

The city grinds behind us—a thousand engines coughing smoke—but here? Here we’re quiet as dust settling after a storm. His hand finds mine again—calloused fingers tracing the curve of my wrist—and suddenly everything feels new. Like maybe love isn’t about fixing what’s broken, but finding beauty in how things wear down.

We don't need to talk much. The wind says enough between us; it carries whispers from places long gone and promises yet unwritten. We'll be fine out here—not perfect, not whole—but real.

Editor: Rusty Cog