The Weight of a Red Secret

Concrete breathes in steam.
A grey pulse beneath the skyline’s ribs.
I am the ripple—a sudden, cooling blue in a fevered world.

Between my palms, time crystallizes into fruit.
Red. Heavy with nectar and the ghosts of summer.
It is not food; it is an invitation to pause.

Touch me. Not just the skin, but the silence between breaths.
The water hums against my spine, a liquid lullaby.
Take this. Bite into the stillness.
Let our names dissolve in the juice of now.

Editor: The Nameless Poet