Liquid Gold and Linen Sheets

The sunlight is too loud for this hour, filtering through the blinds in dusty streaks that taste of old jazz and expensive coffee. I woke up with your breath still warm against my shoulder, a lingering ghost from three hours ago when we decided that sleep was an overrated luxury.
I remember how you looked at me—not just seeing, but reading me like a favorite poem worn thin at the edges. You didn't say much; city people rarely do in the quiet moments. Instead, you poured two glasses of honey-gold nectar and let it spill over us both, an accidental baptism that felt more sacred than any church I’ve ever entered.
Now my skin still feels tight with dried sweetness, a shimmering residue like liquid amber clinging to my cheekbones. My head is heavy—that beautiful, numb weight where the world blurs into soft edges and distant sirens sound like lullabies. The air smells of cedarwood and spent candles, an intoxication that doesn't need wine.
I don’t want to move. I just want to stay here in this golden haze, wrapped in the scent of you and a morning that refuses to start properly until we are ready for it.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn