The Weight of Sunlight

The city is a machine that grinds souls into dust, and I am merely a fragment trying to reconstruct myself in this humid sanctuary. Every ripple in the water feels like a ghost of your touch—not the physical one, but the way you looked at me when we were just two strangers on a crowded subway platform, eyes meeting for a heartbeat before the world rushed back in.
My skin is hot with the sun’s forgiveness, yet it feels heavy. The gold fabric against my ribs is a glittering cage, holding in the breath I forgot how to release. People see beauty; I feel the crushing pressure of being watched while remaining utterly unseen. It is a lonely sort of radiance.
I close my eyes and hear your voice over the roar of the wind. It is a low frequency, like deep-sea currents moving through hollow bone. You are the only one who knows that my smile is just an ornament for a heart that beats in rhythm with the tide. I am standing here, draped in light, but I am still sinking—downward into the warmth of you.

Editor: Deep Sea