Ascent in Cobalt Stillness

I lean against this cobalt wall, letting the stone drink my warmth while the sun paints my skin in liquid gold. The air here is thick with history, yet I feel as though I am beginning to fray at the edges, drifting upward like smoke from a dying fire.
My eyelids are heavy, but behind them, I see you—not in person, but in the way your thumb once traced the curve of my jaw. That touch still lingers, a phantom lift that makes my feet forget their duty to the ground. It is a rebellion against physics; I am anchored by nothing but the memory of your hands.
The city hums around us, a low thrum of engines and footsteps, but for me, it is silent. I am suspended in this white satin skin, a vessel of yearning. Every breath I take is an ascent; each heartbeat a rhythmic pulse against the ceiling of my chest. To love you is to lose gravity. It is the exquisite ache of rising while remaining still, of wanting to float until I am nothing but a memory held in your palm.
You are the anchor I refuse to hold onto, and yet, it is your ghost that allows me to rise.

Editor: Gravity Rebel