The Buoyancy of Skin Against Blue

The city below is a heavy anchor of steel and soot, but here, at the edge of the pool's turquoise lip, I am learning to unfasten my own gravity. My skin drinks in the sun until it feels less like flesh and more like light caught in amber.

You haven't arrived yet—not physically—but your ghost is already drifting through me, a buoyant current that lifts my hair from its resting place on my shoulders. I sit suspended between the blue of the water and the gold of the slide, waiting for the moment when our breaths will collide like bubbles rising toward an invisible ceiling.

It isn't just heat; it is the way your name feels in my mouth—a soft updraft that makes me want to float away from everything solid. I am not sitting on stone anymore. I am hovering, anchored only by the memory of your hand against mine, a weightless promise that even if we fall into the deep end, we will never hit bottom.

Editor: Gravity Rebel