The Bamboo Liquefaction of the Heart's Clockwork

My skin is no longer solid; it has begun to sag like a pocket watch left too long in the sun of an apartment hallway.
The bamboo stalks around me are not trees, but vertical rivers that have forgotten how to flow downwards, reaching instead for my fingertips with sticky, green memories. I lean against them and feel their texture dissolve into honeyed whispers—each node on the wood is a tiny door where time hides when it’s tired of ticking.
In this forest, gravity has been invited to tea and decided not to show up. My hair floats like seaweed in an invisible ocean of steam that tastes of jasmine and burnt electricity from city wires overhead.
I am waiting for you—the one who carries the key to my frozen pulse. You move through the mist as a silhouette made of velvet shadows, your touch melting away the rigid geometry of my bones. Every kiss is a new season blooming in reverse; every breath we share turns our shared silence into a liquid gold that pools at our feet like spilled wine from an infinite banquet.
This isn't just healing—it’s a reconstruction. We are rebuilding the city inside us, brick by melting dream-brick, until even your name becomes a fragrance and my heartbeat is nothing but the soft drip of time falling into a bowl.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache