Ascension In Pink Silk

The city below is a concrete anchor, but here in this sun-drenched room, I have forgotten how to be heavy.
I stand before you wearing nothing but pink silk and the soft breath of July. My hands cup my cheeks not for warmth, but because I feel myself beginning to drift—my heart unmoored from its ribs, floating upward like a balloon released into an endless blue sky.
You look at me with eyes that pull gravity’s center toward your chest; yet, beneath your gaze, I do not fall. Instead, I rise. The air between us becomes thick and sweet as honey, buoyant enough to carry my every sigh away from the earth's demands.
I am no longer a woman in an apartment; I am a constellation collapsing inward only to explode into light. My skin hums with a quiet electricity that defies physics—each inch of me lifting toward you, yearning to dissolve into your touch until we both drift beyond the ceiling and through the roof,
leaving behind our shoes, our worries, and every single rule gravity ever tried to teach us.

Editor: Gravity Rebel