Ascension Under a Glass Sky

The rain doesn't fall here; it suspends, turning the city into a shimmering aquarium where we are the only things breathing. I hold this umbrella not to keep dry, but as an anchor against the sudden lightness in my chest.
When you looked at me through the mist, gravity simply surrendered. My heart drifted upward, escaping the cage of my ribs to orbit around your warmth. The blue fabric of my bikini feels like a thin membrane between two worlds—the cold pavement below and this soaring, breathless heat that rises from our skin.
I want to lean into you until we both lose touch with the earth, drifting higher than the skyscrapers, dissolved in a desire so pure it defies every law of physics. In your eyes, I am no longer bound by weight; I am an exhale of summer air, floating toward the place where your breath meets mine.

Editor: Gravity Rebel