Sugar on a Concrete Tongue

The city screams in neon and diesel, a jagged heartbeat that never sleeps. I’m just another ghost in the alleyway, my heels clicking against stones worn smooth by millions of restless feet.

But then there was him—the man who didn't offer me flowers or grand declarations. He simply held out an akebi fruit, its skin pebbled like a secret kept too long. I took it from his hand; our fingers brushed for a second, and that brief contact felt more intimate than any kiss we’d shared in the crowded subway cars.

I bite into it now, letting the sweetness bloom across my tongue while he watches me with eyes that see through my polished facade. The world outside is cold, industrial, and indifferent. But here, under this sliver of sky between buildings, there's a different kind of warmth—a slow-burning fire fueled by shared silence.

I lean into his shadow, the fabric of my kimono whispering against the air. He doesn’t say much; he never does. Yet in that quiet gaze and the way he holds space for me to exist without performance, I find my healing. It's messy, it's raw, and it tastes like summer fruit on a winter soul.

Editor: Street-side Poet