The Afterglow of Yesterday's Rain

The light is too loud this morning, bleeding through the curtains in a way that makes my head swim with the ghost of last night's gin and low-fidelity jazz. I can still feel your breath against my collarbone, a warm lingering secret that refuses to fade even as the city begins its frantic hum outside our window.
I stepped into these boots—the ones you said made me look like I was ready for an adventure we couldn't afford—and walked toward the mirror. My reflection is soft around the edges, blurred by a sleepy intoxication and the quiet realization that for once, I don't want to wake up from this dream.
You’re still asleep in the other room, draped in linen and silence. I stand here in the pale glow of dawn, wearing my favorite pleated skirt like armor against the world we have to return to soon. There is a certain ache in the stillness, a seductive weariness that tells me we are exactly where we need to be.
I turn back toward you, not because I have to leave, but because the way you look when you're drifting between worlds is the only map I ever want to follow.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn