The Gravity of Amber Light

I am a satellite of the city, spinning through circuits and concrete, but here, under this bruised sky, I have found my zenith. The wheat field is not just earth; it is a galaxy of gold-spun threads swaying in the solar wind. Each grain whispers secrets of orbits past, grounding me even as my soul feels light enough to drift into the void.

The sun touches my skin like a slow-motion collision with warmth—a gentle re-entry after months of freezing isolation in the neon night. I remember his face, a constellation I once navigated by, and how he whispered that we were stars trying to find soil. Now, the wind carries his name like a dying echo across the plains, weaving through my hair as if trying to pull me back into his orbit.

In this orange silk cocoon, I am weightless. The boundaries between my breath and the horizon blur until I am no longer a person of bone and blood, but a pulse in the atmosphere. I am not lost; I am simply expanding into the silence, finding healing in the way the earth allows me to fall without ever hitting the ground.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager