Where the Lights Bloom and Your Hands Stay

The city hums its low, tired hymn beyond the glass, but here, inside the circle of string-lit branches, time folds gently like a page.
I trace the lace over my thigh, feeling each embroidered petal rise and fall with my breath. The pink blossoms lean in close, conspirators of warmth, their shadows dancing on the wall like slow applause for a song no one else will ever hear.
You came home late, your coat still carrying the cold rain, yet the moment you pulled me into that cream sofa, the whole room exhaled. My hand lifts, two fingers bent in a small peace sign to myself, to us, to this fragile truce between the world and the heart.
Let them rush through their neon nights. I am wrapped in gold thread and your quiet voice, healing in the slow rhythm of your touch, where every petal falls like a whispered promise that I am safe, I am held, I am finally home.

Editor: Lyric