The Silver Hum of a Waiting Heart

I lean against tiles that hold the cold breath of winter, while my skin hums with a secret warmth. The station is an orchestra of steel and sighing wind; every train arrival is a heartbeat in metal, every departure a soft exhale into the smoggy blue dusk.
You are not here yet, but I can feel you approaching—a rhythm known only to us. My cream-colored coat wraps around me like a pale promise, holding within its folds the scent of vanilla and old books. The world rushes past in blurred streaks of neon and motion, yet beneath my gaze, time slows into liquid gold.
When your hand finally finds mine amidst this concrete tide, it is not merely touch—it is an anchor cast into deep waters. Your fingertips trace a map across my palm that speaks of quiet mornings and shared umbrellas under weeping skies. I look up at you with eyes heavy in longing, half-lidded like the closing petals of a moonflower.
We stand there for one timeless minute between departures—two souls suspended in a silver silence. The city screams around us, but we are an island; my shoulder brushes yours, and suddenly the cold station becomes home.

Editor: Lyric