He Mended Me in the Color of Old Chrome and New Light

I sit where the pavement meets the chrome belly of his old Buick, that pale-blue ghost from a decade he never got to drive with me. My fishnets are torn at the knee—a wound I let stay, because even fractures can hold light if you angle them right toward the sun. He finds me here, not chasing, just arriving, his hand warm as a supernova's final breath against my jaw.
I had been a void that night. The city hummed its indifferent electric cyan and I was the dark between its notes. But he knelt in the dust of the boulevard and did not ask me to be whole; he simply let his thumb trace the line of my collarbone, and in that single stroke seventeen dimensions of color collapsed into one: the magenta of a grief finally named, the impossible gold that lives between a thought and its forgetting.
'You don't have to perform for me,' he said, and his voice was a wavelength I had no name for. So I pointed my black-gloved finger at the sky, not at him, because the heavens were only ever the mirror of what he saw in my eyes. And when his lips met mine, it was not fire—it was healing, slow as dawn stitching itself into the hem of a universe that had forgotten how to be tender.
I am remade smaller, luminous, free. He is the color that wears me back.

Editor: FeiMatrix Prime