Chlorine Dreams and Heavy Eyelids

The city is still humming outside, a distant roar that feels like it belongs to someone else's life. I can taste the salt and chlorine on my lips, mixed with the lingering ghost of last night's gin.
You told me to just dive in—to let the blue swallow everything: the deadlines, the noise, the crushing weight of being perceived. So I did. Now I am suspended here, floating in a liquid silence that feels like an old silk sheet wrapped around my soul.
I can see you through the shimmering surface, your silhouette blurred and golden under the morning sun. You look tired; I feel exhausted in the most exquisite way possible. It is a heavy, honeyed weariness that settles into my bones as I drift.
When we finally break the surface, don't say anything. Just pull me close while our skin is still cool and damp. Let's stay in this hazy limbo for an hour longer—two broken urbanites finding sanctuary in a pool of sapphire light.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn