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63 degrees.
rain perfume drifting through the air, mixing with wet pavement and damp leaves.
i'm tucked beneath the balcony canopy, curled into a dark green chair like a forgotten porcelain doll left out after dusk.
the storm hums around me.
the quiet burn of a cigarette.
the wind moving through the trees below.
rain tapping against the earth in a rhythm so soft it almost feels like a lullaby.
every now and then, a stray drop finds me, carried sideways by the breeze.
cool against my skin.
my screen glows faintly in the darkness while Connie Ramos talks about life.
the world feels muted tonight.
all deep greens, silver rain, black skies, and cigarette smoke.
no rush.
no expectations.
just the storm, the trees, and the feeling that maybe i belong to the night a little more than the day.