Silent Streets, Wild Hearts

The streets hum low, like a lover’s sigh,
their shadows curling around our feet,
drunk on the ghosts of a thousand untold stories.
The air tastes like salt and dusk,
our hands tangled—
fingers like vines, searching, clinging,
unashamed in their need.

Your touch is a whisper of fire,
a wound I do not want to heal.
Quick kisses hang heavy,
like unfinished sentences—
a hunger too shy to speak aloud.
And yet, your lips carve poetry
into the hollow of my skin,
rough-edged verses that only I can read.

Hugs stretch like time unraveled,
arms a sanctuary,
or maybe a cage.
I wonder—
Do you hold me because you need me,
or because you’re afraid to let go?

The streets are silent,
but the night is loud,
crackling with the static of things unsaid,
desires buried, blooming wild like weeds.
We walk as if we own the dark,
or as if it owns us,
feet tracing invisible maps to places
we’ve never been but ache to remember.

Love here isn’t soft;
it’s sharp, feral—
like a storm that tastes of longing and regret,
like a melody too broken to hum.
But still, we walk,
and still, we kiss,
and still, we hold on
as if the night won’t let us.