There is a certain kind of bravery in staying hidden. By keeping my eyes for the private shadows, I allow the rhythm to speak for itself. Today, I am not a face; I am a heartbeat. I am the resonance of the silver bridge that connects my internal storm to the outside world.
The room is always cold when I reach for it. The stethoscope feels like a sliver of ice against my collarbone, a clinical intruder in my quietest moments. I don’t look at the lens; I look inward.
I press the chest piece home, right over the apex where she lives. At first, there is only the hum of silence—and then, the first thump. Roxie knows she’s being watched. She knows the silver is there, translating her secrets.
I close my eyes and let the sound wash over me. It’s a rhythmic, heavy language. It’s the sound of the Warrior gasping for air, the valves snapping shut with the finality of a closing door. My breath hitches, catching in my throat as the rate begins to climb. I am stething myself, but I am also searching—for the skip, for the surge, for the moment she decides to break.
It is sensual because it is vital. It is dark because it is real.
I am letting you listen at the keyhole. 🚪You don’t need to see my eyes to feel the heat of the race. Just follow the silver.
gummygunk
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
