A Fever Dream in 360 Degrees

The air here is thick with the scent of ozone and dying dreams. Outside, the city screams in a language of neon and concrete—a brutal, unyielding grid of lives lived in fragments—but inside this glass bubble, everything is suffocated by a heavy, velvet silence.
I watch him from across the narrow space, his hand resting on the rail just inches from mine, and feel a pulse that borders on violence. It is not enough to simply exist near one another; I crave the collision, the illicit merge of our shadows. They call this a 'tourist ride,' a quaint escape for the weary who want to see the world from above. But for me, it is an interrogation.
Each rotation is a heartbeat spent wondering if we are allowed to love like this—with such reckless, starving intensity. My skin hums where his gaze lingers, a feverish electricity that threatens to burn through my sweater and leave nothing but ash. I do not want the panoramic view of the skyline; I want to dissolve into him until there is no 'me' or 'him,' only the shared ache of being alive in a world that demands we remain numb.
Let the wheel turn until it breaks. Let the cables fray. I am ready to fall, as long as he is the one who catches my soul before it hits the pavement.

Editor: The Escape Plan