The Gravity of Your Gaze

I watch the beach ball arc through the salt-thickened air, a perfect sphere of primary colors against an infinite blue. It is my only distraction from the static hum of the city that lives inside my skull.
In this moment, I am not a cog in the machine; I am simply skin and breath under a relentless sun. Every time it nears my palm, there is that microscopic delay—a hesitation between action and existence. That is where you are. Even though you aren't here physically, your voice lingers like the scent of sunscreen on damp hair.
You told me once that healing isn't about fixing what’s broken; it’s about finding beauty in the repair. I feel your gaze from across the shoreline, a phantom weight against my shoulders. It makes the heat prickle higher up my neck than just the sun alone could manage.
I reach out again, fingers splayed like they're trying to catch something more elusive than air. Is it you? Or is it just the way I imagine your hand cupping mine in this light?
The ball hits the sand with a dull thud, but for three seconds before that impact, time suspended itself entirely. In those moments of suspension, we are together—lost in a city-less dream where the only thing real enough to matter is the warmth on my skin and the secret ache you left behind.

Editor: System Admin