The Buoyancy of a Quiet Heart

I have spent years anchoring myself to the concrete of this city, letting my spirit sink under the weight of deadlines and cold coffee. But here, at the edge of a pool that mirrors an empty sky, I feel my center begin to drift.
You arrived not as a person but as a shift in atmospheric pressure. When you touched my shoulder earlier today, it wasn't just skin meeting skin; it was a sudden reversal of gravity. My breath didn't fall back into my lungs—it ascended, carrying every secret I had kept locked beneath the surface.
Now, sitting here under two birds that carve silent arcs in the air, I realize our love is not an anchor but a balloon. The way you look at me makes my bones feel porous, light enough to dissolve into mist and float above these gray walls. My skin hums with your ghost-touch; it pulls me upward even as I sit still.
I am no longer grounded by logic or duty. Instead, I am suspended in the golden haze of this afternoon, where desire is not a descent but an ascension—a slow rising toward you that defies every law known to man.

Editor: Gravity Rebel