Wet asphalt.

Pink fractures.

Your shadow

inside the glass.

City hum

under my skin.

Low voltage

in my veins.

I step closer.

It widens.

Not heaven.

Not halo.

Just color

opening below.

Neon doesn’t shine —

it pulls me under.

Slow gravity

through my lungs.

Every reflection

leans downward.

I don’t rise.

I dissolve

into the glow.

Blue rain

across my shoulders.

Billboards whisper

in broken codes.

Your voice

half-static.

Half memory.

I don’t chase it.

It sinks with me.

No skyline.

No sunrise.

Only light

beneath my feet.

Neon doesn’t shine —

it pulls me under.

Soft undertow

in my chest.

Every heartbeat

turns liquid.

I don’t fight it.

I fall

into the hum.

Light was never above.

It was waiting

under the pavement.

Opening.

Neon doesn’t shine —

it keeps me under.

Low and glowing.

Half erased.

Streetlight gravity

holding my outline.

I’m not drowning.

I’m neon now.