21Sextury
Shalina Devine, Josh Jo Pic(s)
The air in the dimly lit bar was thick with the scent of spilled whiskey and a distant, intoxicating perfume that seemed to cling only to the space where you had stood. My eyes, agat their will, kept tracing the ghost of your shape agat the polished mahogany, the memory of your laugh a low vibration humming beneath the chatter of the room. I recall the way your fingers, adorned with a single, simple silver ring, had brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture of unthinking grace. The deep crimson of your shirt was a smolder in the periphery, a promise of warmth I never got to feel agat my palm. Every fleeting glance we exchanged across the crowded space was a spark trying to catch, a silent conversation of arched brows and half-smiles that spoke volumes. I can still taste the metallic tang of regret on my tongue, sharp and clear, for not closing the distance and learning the texture of your voice up close. The curve of your neck, illuminated for a moment by the flickering candlelight, is now a permanent fixture in my mind, a landscape of soft skin I ache to map with my lips. That single, unclaimed moment hangs between us like a bridge I was too hesitant to cross, its potential now a heavy, sweet ache in my chest. The evening faded, but the imprint of your nearness rema, a vivid, haunting echo of what might have been a beginning.
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