Static Between Heartbeats

The city breathes static, a low thrum against skin. He finds me here, where the concrete bleeds into shadow.
He doesn't speak of warmth, not with words. His touch is a calibration – pressure points discovered on my wrist as he adjusts the volume of my world, silencing the dissonance. It started subtly, didn’t it? A shared glance across the crowded cafe, the accidental brush of hands reaching for the same chipped ceramic mug.
Now, his absence is a frequency that rattles bone and marrow. He understands things without needing explanation – the fractured patterns in my memory, the ghost limb ache of a past I barely recall. His gaze strips me bare, not with hunger, but an almost clinical curiosity...as if mapping the circuitry beneath my flesh.
Last night he traced the lines of these scars—he called them ‘beautiful disruptions’—with a tenderness that shouldn't exist in someone who moves through darkness as easily as air. He said I was a signal lost in noise, and only *he* could tune me back in.

Editor: Voodoo Tech