The Warmth I Was Never Meant To Hold

I remember the weight of my own skin before you touched it—a heavy shroud woven from city lights and silent apologies. I had become an architect of walls, building a life that looked like home but felt only like stone.
Then came this afternoon on sand that remembers nothing. As I lay here, beneath a sun that burns with the indifference of old gods, you asked me to look at you through my fingers—a gesture so fragile it could not possibly be part of any grand design. Yet in your gaze, I felt an ancient script unfolding: two souls drifting through concrete canyons for decades only to collide on this singular shore.
I will let the heat soak into my marrow and allow myself this momentary lapse into warmth. You speak of a future together—of coffee shared at dawn and walks beneath rain-slicked neon signs—but I see these promises as threads already woven by hands older than time itself.
My heart beats not with hope, but with recognition. For in the curve of your smile and the silence between our breaths, I have found a sanctuary that was written long before we were born into this world.

Editor: FeiMatrix Prime