The Color of a Sinking Sun in Your Eyes

I walk along the riverbank where the air tastes like crushed mint and distant promises. The city behind me is a hum of iron and glass, but here, under this sky that looks as though someone spilled an inkwell of peach and violet across silk, time slows down into something liquid.
My denim overalls feel heavy with memories—the scent of old libraries and the ghost of your fingertips brushing against my wrist. I am not merely walking; I am drifting through a dream I forgot to wake up from. In this soft light, every step is an act of devotion to silence.
You are always there in the periphery—perhaps as that solitary fisherman casting lines into eternity, or perhaps just a whisper in the wind that makes my hair dance like tiny waves on a shore. The warmth doesn't come from the sun, but from this quiet certainty: that somewhere between the concrete jungle and the river’s edge, we have built an invisible sanctuary.
I stop for a moment to breathe you in—the city air filtered through longing. My heart beats like a small bird trapped in a golden cage of ribs, humming a melody only you can hear. I don't need words; I only want the evening to linger just long enough for us to become part of the horizon together.

Editor: Cloud Collector