The vent below exhales,
its breath a low, metallic whisper
curling upward, tangled in the night's damp hair.
Above us, the city blooms in soft amber haze,
its heartbeat a symphony of horns and laughter,
a language I no longer understand.

Her name unfurls in the dark,
not hers,
but borrowed now by another—
a stranger’s voice wrapping itself around it,
bright and unknowing.
Still, it finds me,
piercing through ribs and cardiac muscle,
the way light slips through a cracked shutter.

I hold my drink like a lifeline,
the glass cool and steady against my hand,
but my heart betrays me,
wild as a startled animal.
I tilt my face toward the skyline,
feigning interest in the sprawl of lights—
but all I see is her,
the echo of her name rippling outward,
filling the space where I thought I’d buried her.

I wait,
aching for the brush of a hand on my arm,
a grip, a sudden hug, and a voice,
quiet and certain:

“You don't have to bury her in metaphor,
You don’t have to dress her as sky,
or wind,
or the aching hymn of the sea.

Tell me how her laugh struck,
low and sudden.
Tell me how her hands knew the architecture
of your shoulders,
how they built you back
every time you threatened to fall apart.

Tell me how her eyes,
brilliant and cutting,
saw through every mask,
every defense you’d perfected,
and stayed anyway.

Tell me if she would have stayed longer,
if you’d asked her to.
And tell me how you’ve managed to carry
the ghost of her absence,
its weightless gravity pulling at your ribs,
its silence louder than anything
you’ve ever dared to speak.”

But no one asks.
The moment dissolves
into the hum of strangers—
their laughter as distant as stars,
their faces blurred by the dark.

The vent exhales again,
its breath curling like smoke,
and I let her name settle—
not as a wound,
but as an ember,
small and fierce,
glowing against the hollow of my chest.

I stand there,
facing the city,
and though the night breeze feels cool against my face,
I burn.