Atlantide

My palms smell of iron and rain, as if memory is no longer stored in my head, but right in my skin. The world shattered into reflections in the glass, in the droplets, in the glints of headlights. Everything seems to be alive, but without warmth, like old photos that have lost their colour. Love here is measured in pixels, and loneliness in megabytes of silence. Somewhere far away, a tiny firefly dot flickers, like a reminder that someone is still waiting. The air is icy, Antarctic, but beneath it, that tiny flame still burns – the very one that keeps you going even when there's nowhere left to go.