The Rhythmic Drift of Cerulean Dreams

The glass is a thin membrane between my pulse and their silence.
In this cerulean cathedral, the city’s jagged edges soften into ripples of light. I watch them—these translucent spirits—drift like thoughts unsaid in a crowded room. They are not swimming; they are breathing with the water itself.
I press my palm against the pane, seeking to borrow their stillness. My own life feels too fast, a blur of deadlines and train whistles, but here, I am suspended. There is a warmth in this cold blue, a healing that comes from watching something so fragile endure with such grace.
A hand rests near my shoulder—a ghost of a touch from the world outside. I don't pull away. Let us stay like this for a moment: two souls anchored by light, floating in the liquid memory of what it means to be alive.

Editor: Floating Muse