The Color We Fall Up Into

The city had been pressing its thumbs into my spine all week, a slow tide of deadlines and cold coffee, until I finally let it go at the door. He had turned our studio into this impossible pink room, and the moment I sank onto the leather, something inside me stopped falling. My gingham sleeves puff out like little clouds catching wind; the white bow at my chest is not a knot but a held breath, and when he lifts his hand to my beret I feel myself rise an inch off the cushion, buoyant as a thought refused by gravity.
He does not ask what broke me. He only pours the warm light across the wall and lets it pool on my skin, healing the bruised hours of being small in a loud city. My gaze meets his and the whole room exhales upward; desire here is not hunger but lift, a slow unfurling where every touch cancels an ounce of weight. I press my studded cuff to the glossy fuchsia and swear that love is just gravity deciding, at last, to let us float.

Editor: Gravity Rebel