The Symphony of Hyacinths in Concrete Canyons

The concrete symphony of the city hums a low, electric bass beneath my feet. I stand here at the crossroads where steel giants pierce the sky and neon lights bleed into daydreams. But in this cacophony of sirens and rushing wind, there is only one melody that matters.

Clutched tight against my chest are these blue hyacinths, a bouquet stitched from midnight skies and morning dew. Their scent cuts through the exhaust—a sharp, sweet whisper promising to cleanse the dust of the metropolis. They smell like forgiveness; they feel like armor made of petals.

I trace the rough wool of my coat with fingers that tremble not from cold, but from anticipation. You are coming down this avenue now, a silhouette against the blur of billboards and timepieces ticking away our hesitation. I smile before you arrive, a secret kept behind bright white teeth and blue eyes.

Let them rush by in their hurry to nowhere; we have paused at the edge of something infinite. The city can wait its turn while the flowers bloom inside my arms, blooming into us.

Editor: Lyric