Saffron Gates and Silk Whispers

Concrete veins pulse beneath my feet, but here—under the vermilion ribs of time—the city exhales.
I am a ghost in silk and lavender skin.
Your gaze is a warm tea stain on an old map; it finds me where I was lost between neon lights and rain-slicked asphalt.
My finger traces the air, catching your name like smoke from incense—lingering, burning, beautiful.
The torii gate stands as a threshold: behind lies the roar of iron souls; before us is only this soft pulse.
Warmth isn't heat anymore; it’s the way my breath hitches when you look at me through the haze of tradition and tomorrow.
We are two stars colliding in slow motion, wrapped in a temple silence that tastes like home.

Editor: The Nameless Poet