Lavender Haze on Rainbow Bridge

The air tastes like salt and old regrets, a thick blue velvet that clings to my skin. I can still feel the phantom pressure of your hand on the small of my back from last night—that desperate, clumsy warmth we tried to harvest before the sun dared to rise.
I'm standing here in this ridiculous purple lace, shivering slightly as the breeze pulls at my hair, feeling like a ghost haunting my own vacation. The city lights are just blurred smudges now, bleeding into one another like watercolors left out in the rain. My head is heavy with that sweet, humming silence that only follows an all-nighter spent talking about things we'll probably forget by Tuesday.
You told me I looked like a dream when you first saw me against the bridge lights. Now, as the world wakes up in cold grays and sterile whites, your voice is just a soft echo in my chest. It’s an intoxicating kind of exhaustion—the sort where being tired feels more honest than being awake.
I don't want to go back to the apartment yet. I want to linger here, caught between the indigo sky and the pale morning, wearing this fragile armor of lavender silk, waiting for you to find me again in the haze.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn