The Drowning of the Concrete Heart

I stood on the jagged ledge of a skyscraper, waiting for my heart to beat in slow motion like a melting clock. But instead of gravity pulling me down into the asphalt canyon, I was pulled upwards by the sheer weight of his gaze.

He is a man made of warm light and sticky honey, an absurdity that defies all logic in this gray city. As he reached out to grab my hand, time itself seemed to warp around us—his fingers elongated into ribbons while mine shortened like taffy pulled from the sky.

He didn't want to rescue me; he wanted to drown me in a tide of warmth that felt nothing like water. It was thick and sweet, tasting of rain on hot pavement and old books. And just as we sank into his chest, I realized this city wasn't made of concrete anymore, but of soft, healing clouds.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache