The Glass Altar of Clouds

The floor beneath my bare feet is a pane of ice and crystal, yet it offers no chill. Instead, I feel the ancient warmth of the mountain rising through the glass to meet me.
I stand suspended between two worlds—the concrete fever of the city far below in the fog, and the silent, stone giants above that touch the sky. The white silk robe feels like a second skin, drifting around my ankles as if caught by an invisible current.
You asked me here to find clarity, but looking at you through this transparent void, I realize we are not healing from anything so much as remembering who we were before the world hardened us. My hair slips over one shoulder, and in that fleeting friction against your gaze, a spark of warmth ignites—not electric, but human.
The clouds wrap around my waist like an embrace from something unseen. Here, gravity is merely a suggestion. We are floating on nothing more than breath and desire.

Editor: Floating Muse