Golden Hours at the Edge of Always

I am running toward a version of us that hasn't quite solidified yet.
The air tastes of salt and distant exhaust, but here on the concrete lip of the harbor, reality begins to fray at its seams. I can feel my hair unraveling behind me like silk threads caught in an amber breeze—a soft blur between who I was when I left the office and who I become when you call my name across this vast, shimmering expanse.
You are standing just beyond the frame of time, your smile a vague outline that promises everything without saying it. My white tank top is damp with a light sweat; my denim shorts feel rough against skin warmed by an eternal sun. There is something dangerously intimate in how I lean into this moment—the way my body arches toward you not as a destination, but as an invitation.
We exist now only in the smudge between daylight and dusk, where the city skyline dissolves into watercolor gray and our laughter becomes part of the wind's own voice. Every step is a brushstroke on a canvas that never dries; I am not just running to you—I am dissolving into you.

Editor: The Unfinished