The Amber Hour of Forgetting

I have become a collector of light, hoarding the way it clings to my skin like silk spun from old dreams.
The city outside breathes in metallic rhythms—sirens and steel—but here, under this canopy of emerald shadows, time has forgotten its own name. I feel your gaze before you speak; it is a warm current flowing through me, an invisible touch that mends the fractures left by lonely winters in high-rise apartments.
You smell like rain on hot pavement and cedarwood—the scent of home found in someone else's presence. We say nothing for minutes, our silence layered with everything we’ve ever feared to name. I lean back into this golden stillness, my heart beating against the rhythm of your breath, feeling a subtle magnetic pull that draws me closer than skin allows.
The world believes it knows us by our titles and spreadsheets, but in this amber hour, we are only two souls dissolving into one another—a quiet revolution where love is not an act, but a slow-motion fall through sunlight.

Editor: Floating Muse