The Weight of Silk

The city exhales a humid sigh against the glass, blurring the neon into watercolor streaks. I watch it from here, detached – a ghost in my own life until you arrived.
Your hands, rough with work and stained with ink, trace the curve of my collarbone. A small gesture, barely there, yet it ignites something feral within me, a hunger that has been carefully chained for years. I should pull away, remind you of boundaries, of expectations… but the words die in my throat.
Instead, I lean into your touch, the silk of my dress whispering against your skin. The fabric feels almost obscene, a fragile barrier against a connection too potent to name. It’s a dangerous game, this dance between restraint and surrender.
The scent of rain clings to your coat as you move closer, and for a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine shedding all pretense, all the careful layers I've built around my heart. To feel only the heat of your body against mine, the weight of your gaze… but then, just as quickly, the vision shatters.
You are a phantom limb, a delicious ache in an empty space – and I am merely a woman wearing a dress.

Editor: Leather & Lace