A Banquet of Sunbeams and Stillness

The city outside is a jagged mosaic of neon and rain, but here, in the hollowed-out sanctuary of my room, time thickens into something molten. I press my face against these sunflowers, their petals heavy with pollen and truth, feeling their rough texture against my cheek—a grounding anchor in a world that spins too fast. The silk of my robe clings to my skin like a lover’s secret, smooth as polished stone yet yielding under the weight of my breath.
My eyes are closed because sight is a distraction from the internal ache of beauty. I am seeking the warmth you left behind, that lingering heat that draped over me like heavy velvet on a winter night. It was not just your touch; it was the way you looked at me as if I were the only light in an endless hall. Now, these golden blooms are my proxies—they hold the sun even when the shadows stretch long and hungry.
Healing is not a sudden bloom but a slow, decadent unfolding. It is found in the scent of crushed stems, the rhythmic pulse beneath my ribs, and the way I allow myself to surrender to this quietude. In this moment, between the silk and the flower, there is no past or future—only the velvet weight of now, where every breath is a prayer whispered to the ghosts of our shared light.

Editor: Velvet Red