The Geometry of a Lingering Breath

I have always believed that memories are just ghosts we choose to feed. In the city's relentless pulse, I learned to build walls—glass and wood, concrete and silence. But today, as I stand by this sliding door, the air feels different. It tastes of damp earth and sun-bleached linen.

I remember your hands on my shoulders last autumn; they were steady anchors in a storm of deadlines and grey mornings. Now, even though you are miles away, I can almost feel that weight against my skin. The sheer fabric of my gown flutters like a secret told to the wind, revealing just enough for the light to play across my hips—a silent invitation to a memory we haven't yet lived out.

The garden outside is waking up, bathed in a gold so soft it feels like an apology from time itself. I press my palm against the frame, feeling the cool wood ground me while my soul drifts toward you. It isn't just warmth that heals; it is this quiet recognition—the way your name tastes on my tongue before I even speak it.

Let the city roar outside our sanctuary. For now, there is only the dance of dust motes in a sunbeam and the slow rhythm of my heart catching its breath. You are not here, yet you have never been more present than in this single, suspended moment between being alone and feeling whole.

Editor: South Wind