The Static Between Heartbeats

The city breathes a different kind of heat tonight, doesn't it?
A shimmer on the pavement, mirroring the restless energy in my veins. I trace the condensation on my glass – a fleeting map of what could be. He said he liked storms.
Funny, isn’t it? How we seek out those who mirror our own internal turbulence. A slow burn, a delicate dance between vulnerability and control. The scent of rain-slicked asphalt mixes with his cologne... or is that just memory playing tricks?
A ghost touch on my wrist lingers long after he's gone, a phantom warmth against the cool metal of my bracelet.
I wonder if he feels it too? This static between heartbeats, this unspoken language of longing. Probably not. Men rarely notice the quiet poetry of absence. They only see what is presented to them.
Yet, sometimes, in the crowded echo of a nightclub, I catch his gaze across the room. A fleeting moment of recognition… or perhaps just a trick of the light.

Editor: Floating Muse