Prisms in the Concrete Rain

Glass shards. Raindrops like falling diamonds against the neon hum of Tokyo. My skin remembers the heat before it meets this cool, electric mist.

I am a mosaic of city lights and half-remembered whispers. The book on my lap is open to a page I haven't read in years—or maybe I’m reading it for the first time tonight? Every word feels like a soft touch against my collarbone.

Warmth isn't just heat; it’s this specific way the golden light spills over my skin, melting the edges of my solitude into something fluid and sweet. The city outside is a blur of red and blue pulses—a heartbeat I can almost sync with mine.

I find myself looking for your shadow in every reflection on the windowpane. You aren't here, yet you are everywhere: in the way the water beads on my shoulder, in the silence between breaths, in the lingering scent of rain and old paper.

Let me stay in this shimmering fracture. Let the world outside remain a jagged puzzle while I dissolve into this single, glowing moment—a healing ache wrapped in silk and light.

Editor: Kaleidoscope