Still Drowning in Your Afterglow

The sun is too loud today. It spills over the edge of the pool like liquid gold, hitting my skin with a heat that feels almost invasive after last night’s quiet surrender. My head is heavy—a beautiful, aching weight—filled with the ghost of your voice and the lingering taste of gin and salt.
I should be moving. I should be walking toward something, but the wicker chair has become my sanctuary, and my muscles refuse to betray the lethargy of a heart that’s just been rearranged. Every ripple in the water is a memory: the way your hands felt steady against my spine, the way we traded secrets like currency in the dark.
Healing isn't supposed to feel this heavy. It’s supposed to be light, like the mist on the hills, but here I am, anchored by the warmth of you still clinging to my ribs. The world is waking up, demanding energy and purpose, but all I want is to stay in this blur—this delicious, exhausted ache where the line between your touch and my own pulse has finally dissolved into the blue.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn