The Echo of Your Absence is a Bloom

The chipped paint on these steps whispers forgotten stories, echoes of lovers long turned to dust. I trace the crimson beads against my skin, each one a captured heartbeat – not his, of course, but the phantom rhythm of possibility.
He left a scent in the air, something like rain on warm asphalt and old books…a ghost fragrance that clings to the fabric of reality itself. The city breathes around me, a concrete lung full of unspoken desires, and I find myself strangely comforted by its anonymity.
We met here, you know. Beneath this very door, where shadows dance with defiance.
He was sketching in a notebook, trying to capture the way sunlight fractured on the cobblestones. He said my eyes held galaxies. Such ridiculousness! But even now… I find myself wanting him to sketch me again, to see if he could immortalize this hollow ache in charcoal and paper.
Maybe if I stay here long enough, the universe will rewind itself.
Or perhaps...perhaps this lingering emptiness is just a beautifully melancholic masterpiece of its own.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache