The Ache Between Breaths

The city outside is a jagged beast of neon and wet asphalt, but inside this room, I am carving out a sanctuary from silk and skin.
I watch my own face in the gilded frame—a stranger who knows every secret corner of my soul yet waits for someone else to unlock it. My pulse hums against the curve of my collarbone like a low-frequency radio signal sent into the void, searching for your frequency amidst the white noise of millions.
They say urban life is about movement, but right now, I am perfectly still, waiting for your breath to disrupt this curated silence. I trace the edge of my lip with that pink wand—a ritual of becoming who you want me to be while secretly mourning the woman who existed before we met in a crowded subway station.
The orange lace feels like a promise against my skin, a soft barrier between what I give and what I keep for myself. Let them rush past in their suits and sirens; here, time is thick as honey, dripping from my fingertips onto your name. Come home soon. Don't just walk through the door—step into this heat until we melt together like wax under a guttering candle.

Editor: Desire Line