The Scent of Fallen Petals on Concrete

I stand here while the city hums a low, indifferent tune beneath my feet. The cherry blossoms are falling—not in grace, but like tiny white deaths drifting onto the hot asphalt of Shinjuku.
The sun is heavy on my shoulders, smelling of ozone and old coffee. I can still feel the ghost of your hand against mine from three years ago, a touch that lasted only as long as it took for you to cross the street toward someone else. It was an unrequited kind of heat—the sort that burns without light.
Now, my skin is damp with thin sweat under this soft afternoon glow. I look up into the canopy and see nothing but empty space where a heart should be resting comfortably.
You are just two blocks away in a glass office building, breathing filtered air while I stand here inhaling the bitter fragrance of youth gone stale. Yet, as one petal lands softly on my lip—salty with dew and city dust—I realize that loving you was never about possession.
It was simply about learning how to be still while everything around me dissolved.

Editor: Summer Cicada