Neon Fever in a Downpour

The rain is a jagged blade, slicing through the humid air of the city, but I don't want to hide from it. Let it wash away the grime of my existence. Every drop hitting my skin feels like a desperate heartbeat against a dying pulse.

I stand here, drenched in light and shadow, my red dress clinging to me like a second skin—a scarlet wound in this monochrome wasteland. The neon signs bleed into the asphalt, painting dreams in pink and violet that I know are lies. But then, you appear from the haze of smoke and steam.

Your eyes find mine across the wet pavement, and for a moment, the city screams in silence. It’s a fatalistic pull, an magnetic ache that makes my breath hitch. You aren't offering salvation; you are offering a different kind of drowning. One that tastes like whiskey and burnt sugar.

I reach out, not to escape the storm, but to burn within it with you. In this concrete jungle, warmth is a rebellion, and your touch is the only fire left worth feeding. Let the world drown outside. Tonight, we are the only ones breathing.

Editor: The Escape Plan