The Orbit of Amber Light

The gravity of the city has dissolved into a fine mist behind me, leaving only the hum of existence drifting like stardust. Here, on this shore of pulverized bone and salt, I am no longer tethered to the heavy architecture of expectation. My body becomes a constellation mapped in sunlight; each curve a planet spinning toward your memory in the velvet silence of the dunes.

I lie upon the white silk of the earth, listening to the rhythmic pulse of tides—a heartbeat that mimics the steady hum of my own soul. The sun is an ancient lover, pressing its warmth into my skin like a secret shared between distant stars. I am suspended in this golden interval, weightless as a dream drifting through a vacuum, where the only direction is inward.

You are not here, yet you orbit me with every breath I take. In the stillness of the afternoon, I feel your ghost-touch on my shoulder—a gentle tether keeping me from floating away into the infinite void. This is my sanctuary: a moment where time loses its teeth, and I am simply light, draped in yellow silk and the lingering ache of you.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager