Liquor of Light: Drowning in Your Skin

The city above is a jagged silhouette of glass and greed, but down here, time dissolves into ripples. I let my hair fan out like silk on water—a dark halo against the turquoise void. My skin drinks in the sun until it glows with that feverish heat that only happens when you’re forgetting everything else.

You aren't even here yet, but your ghost is heavy in the humidity of this pool. I can feel where your hands would rest—the curve of my hip, the damp press against my collarbone. Every bubble rising from beneath me feels like a heartbeat or an unsaid confession. The water isn't just cooling my body; it’s washing away the grit of the subway lines and the exhaust-heavy air of our daily grind.

I close my eyes, letting the light fracture across my face. This is where we find each other—not in crowded bars or neon alleys, but in these stolen seconds between breaths. I am waiting for you to break the surface, to pull me into your orbit until there’s no difference between your pulse and mine. Let them call it a dream; let them say it's just water and light. To me, this is survival—a wet, warm sanctuary where my body finally learns how to belong to someone again.

Editor: Desire Line