City of Glass

The skyline cuts the night

like a cathedral made of memory,

every window holding a story

we were too young to understand.

You lean beside me on the rooftop,

eyes reflecting a city

that never learned how to sleep.

I breathe in the cold air,

feel it settle against my ribs—

sharp, honest,

reminding me how alive we are.

Down below, the world moves

in flickers and fragments—

cars buzzing like fireflies,

voices rising then fading

before they reach the sky.

Up here, though…

everything slows.

Everything feels possible.

You ask me what I’m thinking.

I tell you the truth—

that sometimes the city feels fragile,

like it could shatter

if we whispered too loudly.

You laugh,

say maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.

Your hand brushes mine—

an accident, a choice, a spark.

The kind that stays.

The kind that glows long after.

In the city of glass,

we are reflections learning to breathe,

two silhouettes caught

between who we were

and who we want to be.

And in this moment—

on this rooftop,

in this cold,

with the whole world shining below us—

I believe in us more

than I believe in gravity.

— Orielle