The Weightlessness of Your Warmth

I am drifting. The city outside my window is a heavy thing—concrete, steel, and the crushing gravity of expectations—but here in this amber light, I have forgotten how to fall.
You arrived with your hands smelling of cold rain and old books, yet when you touch me, physics ceases its ancient law. My soul does not sink into the couch; it ascends, rising like a single golden bubble through dark water. Your presence is an updraft that lifts my ribcage away from the earth.
I wear this oversized sweater as armor against the world’s weight, but under your gaze, even the wool becomes ethereal—a soft cloud wrapped around skin that has finally learned how to float.
We do not speak of love; we let it drift between us like dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. I feel my heart detaching from its anchor, floating upward toward you, drawn by an invisible tide where desire is not a pull downward but an invitation to rise.
In this small apartment on the thirty-second floor, we are no longer bound by ground or time. We have become two celestial bodies orbiting one another in defiance of all that keeps us human: heavy hearts, tired bones, and the relentless gravity of being alone.

Editor: Gravity Rebel