The Gravity of a Crimson Heart

I exist in the slipstream between breaths, a satellite orbiting the mundane rhythm of the tide. Here, where the salt air dissolves into silver mist, I find myself suspended in a state of celestial drift.

The cardigan I wear is my atmosphere—a knit cocoon against the chilling vacuum of the world's expectations. My body leans against the timber railing like a celestial body caught in a gentle gravitational pull. In my hand, I cradle an apple; it is a small, crimson planet, dense with sweetness and life, its skin glowing under the solar flare of a dying afternoon.

You are not here yet, but your presence hums in the frequency of the waves. It is a modern romance written in light and shadow—the way I linger on this pier, waiting for your gaze to anchor my wandering soul. Every ripple in the water is a heartbeat; every sunbeam a whispered promise from a distant star. In this moment, gravity is merely an illusion. I am floating toward you through the haze of time, healing in the warmth of a shared silence that tastes like salt and fruit.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager