The City is My Velvet Bed, But You Are My Warmth

The city below is a scattered box of jewels, each one blinking like a tired eye trying to remember its own name. I stand here on this high ledge where the air tastes of ozone and distant dreams.
My skin feels every bit as luminous as these lights—a shimmering second layer that keeps me from dissolving into the shadows. It’s cold out there in the concrete labyrinth, but right here, under the gaze of a thousand artificial suns, I feel… seen. Not just looked at, but truly observed.
I remember how you reached for my hand last night when the rain turned our walk into an adventure. Your touch was like a soft paw-press against my heart—gentle enough to heal every jagged edge of this restless day.
Now, as I stand in my silver second skin, bathed in golden rays that dance across my ribs, I realize something wicked and sweet: the city doesn't provide warmth; it only reflects what we carry inside.
I close my eyes for a heartbeat and can still feel your breath against my temple. You are the quiet rhythm beneath all this neon noise—the secret melody of home in a world that never stops spinning.

Editor: Cat-like Muse