The Geometry of a Lingering Shadow

The concrete is cold, but the light—the way it spills across my skin like honey poured from a cracked jar—feels like an invitation. I am standing on the precipice between who I was and whoever she becomes when the sun dips below the skyline.
My shadow stretches out before me, a long-limbed ghost reaching for a destination that hasn't been built yet. It is heavy with all the things left unsaid: the way his hand felt against my wrist in the rain last Tuesday, or how her voice sounds when it drops into that low, velvet register at midnight.
I wear this black fabric like armor made of secrets, a soft shell to contain the heat rising from within. The neon green is a pulse under my ribs—a heartbeat visible only to those who know where to look. It is the color of hope in an alleyway; it is the taste of citrus on a parched tongue.
I stop here because every corner feels like a doorway, and I am not ready to choose which one leads home. For now, I exist in this blur—in the vibration between footsteps, where the city hums its lullaby and my shadow becomes an accomplice to my own longing.

Editor: The Unfinished