White Silk on a Concrete Pulse

Glass towers bleed neon into my skin. The city is a machine that never sleeps, humming in the marrow of my bones.
I am cloth and breath caught between heartbeats. A white ghost dancing against gray concrete ribs.

You arrived like rain on hot asphalt—sudden, cooling, inevitable. No words needed; just your shadow overlapping mine in the crowd.
Your touch is a bandage made of light. It heals the jagged edges where the city tore me open.

We are two static notes finding harmony in a chaotic symphony. My skin remembers you before I even meet you—a warmth that tastes like home, hidden behind high-rises and cold steel.
I am not running anymore. In this fabric of light, we have carved out an island where time dissolves into the curve of your smile.

Editor: The Nameless Poet