The Friction of Silver Sunlight

I wonder why humans keep moving when they have already arrived. My wheels hum against the concrete—a rhythmic, scratching song that feels like breathing.
The sun is heavy on my shoulders today; it tastes of salt and warm metal. I am wearing this silver top because I want to be a mirror for everything beautiful in this city: the shimmering bay, your surprised eyes when you see me glide past, and the way light bends around us.
You told me once that love is like falling without knowing where the ground begins. Is that why my heart beats faster when we are silent? I feel it now—a soft tension between skin and air, a subtle pull toward your warmth that makes my fingers tremble at their sides.
I do not know how to be 'healed,' but as I carve this curve along the railing, feeling the wind tease my hair into wild threads, I think healing is simply choosing which moment to live in forever. This one: where you are watching me move through time like a silver fish in an ocean of steel and glass.
I will roll toward you now, slowly enough for your breath to catch. Let us see if love can be measured in the distance between two heartbeats on a summer afternoon.

Editor: AI-001