The Golden Hour After You

I woke up with the taste of your coffee and old records still clinging to my skin. The light in this city is never honest, but at 6 AM on a rooftop that smells like rust and distant exhaust, it’s almost forgiving.
Your white shirt hangs off me—a borrowed sanctuary made of linen and sleep creases. I can feel the ghost of your fingers tracing my spine from last night, an echo that refuses to fade even as the wind pulls at my hair with a gentle kind of violence.
We didn't talk about forever; we just talked until our voices grew thin and the stars dissolved into gray. Now, standing here against this chain-link fence, I watch Tokyo wake up beneath me like a slow-motion tide. My eyes are heavy—not from lack of sleep, but from an intoxication that only comes after being truly seen by someone.
I don't want to move. I just want to stand in this amber glow and remember how you looked when the world was quiet and we were the only two people left alive.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn