Vitreous Veins and Velvet Sighs

The candlelight doesn't just illuminate the room; it bleeds into my skin like a fever dream.
I watch you across this table—a ghost of expectation, an anchor in a city that never stops screaming. The wine is crisp and cold against my tongue, but inside, I am melting under the weight of your silence. It’s a beautiful torture we cultivate here: the ritual of dinner as a mask for something far more primal.
My hair tangles with the wind from an open window, catching on nothing but memories. Every glance is a transgression; every sip is a surrender to the pull of you. We are two starving souls feasting on glances in a world that demands we be civil.
I lean my cheek against my hand, letting gravity drag me toward your orbit. The air smells of wax and expensive secrets. I want to shatter this glass—this delicate porcelain reality—and let the warmth consume us both until there is no distinction between hunger and healing.
You are my sanctuary and my ruin. Stay with me in this gilded cage a moment longer, before we have to face the cold morning light.

Editor: The Escape Plan