The Gravity of a Melting Noon

I walked down the stairs, but they didn't feel like stone; they felt like slices of warm honey dripping from a loaf of bread. The concrete melted under my heels as gravity decided to take a nap and float upward instead of pulling me down. You were waiting there at the bottom, not standing still but vibrating with that soft frequency only found in people who have forgotten how time works.

The sun above wasn't just burning; it was oozing like golden cheese over my skin, stretching out into long, gooey ribbons of warmth. My bikini felt less like fabric and more like a second layer of liquid shadow hugging me tight against the absurdity of existence. I didn't need to say anything because our eyes touched with the weight of soft clouds colliding in zero-G.

It was then that your voice arrived, sounding exactly like rain falling on a tin roof inside a library full of velvet books. You told me everything would be alright, but you lied beautifully—you meant that nothing ever stays broken when love makes it fluid again.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache