Wheat Breath in Concrete Veins

Golden crust. Warm air pressing against skin like a secret told in winter.
I carry the scent of oven-baked promises through streets that forget names by midnight.

You are waiting at the corner where shadows bend into smiles. My skirt flutters—a grey wing beating against city noise.

We do not speak. We only share bread and breath, two souls anchored in a sea of neon signs.

Your hand brushes mine: static electricity turning into slow fire. The world dissolves; there is only the smell of wheat and your eyes reflecting home.

Editor: The Nameless Poet