The Glass Half Full of Yesterday

The sunlight is too loud for this kind of morning. It spills across the concrete in thick, gold sheets, mocking my heavy eyelids and a heart that still beats in time with your laughter from last night.
I’m sitting on the edge of the riverbank, wearing nothing but skin and memories, holding a glass of water like it's some kind of holy relic. My mind is a smudge—a hazy blur of dim streetlights, shared cigarettes under an overpass, and the way you whispered my name against the crook of my neck while the city slept around us.
I can still feel where your hand rested on my lower back; it’s a ghost-touch that keeps me anchored to this concrete ledge. We didn't say much when we woke up—just slow smiles and heavy sighs, two souls too tired for words but desperate for one more hour of skin against skin.
Now you’re inside packing your bag with an agonizing deliberation, while I watch the water ripple below. The air is humid, clinging to me like a second layer of clothing. There is something so quietly devastating about this kind of peace—the healing that comes not from fixing things, but from letting them be broken for a little longer.
I take a sip of water and close my eyes. I don't want the day to start yet; I just want to stay in this intoxicated pause between who we were last night and who we have to become when we walk away.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn