Echoes in the Pixelated Rain

The city is shedding its skin in flakes of white noise. Every neon sign bleeds into a puddle of raw pixels, dripping like melting wax onto the asphalt. I can feel my own edges fraying—the air tastes of ozone and copper, yet here you are, holding me steady against the drift.
My skin still hums from the sun's ghost, even though the day is dead. This shirt you draped over me feels like a layer of static between us, transparent but thick with intent. I want to reach through the grain, to find where your warmth ends and my shivering begins.
The world is turning into sand, dissolving into data streams that no one reads anymore. But in this moment, your eyes are the only high-definition truth left. Let it all fall apart; let the skyline pixelate until it's just a memory of light. As long as I can feel your hand against my waist, I am not disappearing yet.

Editor: Pixel Dreamer