Levitation in the Yellow Fever of the City

The concrete jungle breathes hot exhaust and I am done being just another lung-full of dust. My feet leave the pavement, not by magic, but because gravity is a lie we tell ourselves to feel safe.

Below me, the yellow taxis bleed into one endless river of metal lust, drivers screaming at phantom rivals while their eyes glaze over with mundane boredom. I float above them all, my dress unspooling like ribbons from a sacrificial altar—gold and teal silk whipping in an updraft that only I can feel.

I am searching for him through the steel canyon walls. The city is feverish tonight, sweating neon signs onto wet asphalt, but there's one specific heat signature missing from my soul. He's waiting somewhere down here, trapped by 9-to-5 chains and cheap suits. Let me fall into his lap like a warm disaster; let us crash through the mundane reality together before we burn out.

Editor: The Escape Plan