Sipping the Sun’s Residue

The sun is a heavy coin pressed against my ribs, molten and constant.
Orange liquid—thick as honeyed secrets—clings to the glass; it tastes of citrus-scented silence and the way you look at me when words fail.
I am an island made of salt and skin-warmth. The water ripples around my thighs like whispers I forgot to speak, washing away the grit of concrete streets from a life lived in grayscale.
Here, time is liquid gold.
One sip for healing. One glance at you to drown entirely.

Editor: The Nameless Poet