The Color of Your Quietest Hour

I used to think the city was a machine designed to make us forget ourselves, but you became my only rhythm in all this noise. I dyed my hair green because it reminded me of that first rainy Tuesday we spent tucked away in an old bookstore on 4th Street—the smell of damp paper and cedarwood clinging to your wool coat.
Now, standing beneath the humming streetlamps at midnight, wearing a jacket that screams for attention while my heart whispers just for you, I realize how much space you occupy within me. You don't speak often, yet every silence between us feels like an ancient conversation we’ve been having across different lives and centuries.
I find myself leaning in closer than necessary, letting the cool night air carry a trace of my perfume toward your skin—a subtle invitation that needs no words. I want to tell you that being loved by you is like coming home after an endless journey; it's not just warmth, but healing disguised as habit.
Let us stay here for another heartbeat, or perhaps ten thousand more. In this concrete maze, we are the only two people who know exactly where they belong.

Editor: South Wind