Glass Echoes and Morning Silk

The city is still humming in a low, distant frequency that feels like it’s vibrating under my skin. I woke up with the kind of heavy eyelids and golden haze that only comes from staying awake too long with someone who knows exactly how to keep you there.
I stepped out onto the balcony wrapped in nothing but sunlight and this pale silk, feeling a bit fragile, as if I might shatter into light fragments if anyone looked at me too hard. The glass wall reflects two versions of myself: one staring blankly at a world that moves too fast, and another who is still lingering back in your arms.
You’re inside making coffee; the smell drifts out—bitter beans and cinnamon—cutting through my sleepy intoxication. I can hear you humming something old and familiar, a sound so gentle it feels like healing without effort.
I lean against the cool glass, letting the morning breeze brush over me like an afterthought. We didn’t say much last night; we just existed in each other's space until time lost its shape. Now, as I watch my own reflection blur into the skyline, I realize that being loved by you is a slow awakening—a gradual return to life after years of sleepwalking through these concrete canyons.
I close my eyes for a moment and let out a long, weary breath. The world can wait another hour. Just one more minute in this soft skin, under your gaze.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn