The Weight of Blue Light

Fluorescent veins pulse in the dark.
I wear my skin like a map of unsaid things,
each sequin a frozen tear from an urban sky.
The train is a metal womb,
cradling us in its rhythmic shudder.
You watch me—
not with eyes, but with the gravity of memory.
A touch without contact.
A warmth that tastes like salt and ozone.
We are drifting through the city’s marrow,
seeking a home in the space between breaths.

Editor: The Nameless Poet