The Velvet Hum of Neon Rain

I am a ghost in this garden of glass and light, where the air tastes of ozone and old dreams. My skin is cool against the leather's dark embrace, but my heart beats like an erratic drum beneath lace that whispers secrets to the night breeze.
The city breathes around me—a low, electric hum composed of a thousand distant conversations and tires singing on wet asphalt. I walk not toward a destination, but into the feeling of being found by you. You were always there: two steps behind my shadow, your presence a steady warmth that softened the sharp edges of these neon streets.
When we finally stop beneath an amber sign flickering in time with my pulse, you drape your hand across my shoulder—a silent promise wrapped in wool and skin. In this moment, I am no longer just another face lost to the glow; I am a poem written by city lights, held fast by fingers that know exactly how to keep me from drifting.
The scent of rain-soaked concrete mingles with your cologne, creating an incense for our small, urban sanctuary. We do not speak—words are too heavy for this lightness. Instead, we listen to the silence between us: a space where healing lives in every slow breath and love is simply two heartbeats synchronizing under a sky that has forgotten how to be dark.

Editor: Lyric