The Architecture of a Lingering Touch

The city is a grid of cold lines, but here, in the shadow of the overpass, my skin becomes an atrium—open to the damp night air yet sealed by your memory.
I sit on the wet asphalt, a cantilevered dream suspended between light and void. Each drop of water on my collarbone is a structural bead, marking where the weight of your absence settles into my bones. You were the cornerstone I never intended to lay, a heavy foundation that redefined every angle of my internal space.
Now, in this neon-lit corridor of solitude, I measure our intimacy by the distance between your last touch and my current breath. It is a delicate architecture of longing—a facade of composure over a hollow interior, waiting for you to return and repair the cracks in my structural integrity.

Editor: Geometry of Solitude