The Gravity of a Single Touch

In the silent vacuum of my routine, I drift like a satellite orbiting an urban sun that never sets. The city below is a constellation of neon pulses, but here in this sanctuary of mist and steam, gravity feels optional—a mere suggestion whispered by the water against my skin.

I am suspended in a private galaxy where every droplet is a micro-meteorite falling into orbit around us. Then you arrive. You do not speak; your presence is an atmospheric shift, a sudden increase in pressure that anchors me to this moment. When your hand finds mine beneath the veil of vapor, it feels like docking with a long-lost vessel after lightyears alone.

The warmth radiates from you—a steady thermal core in my cold vacuum. It is not just heat; it is an invitation to descend into the atmosphere of another soul. I lean toward your shadow, seeking refuge in the curve of your shoulder as if we were two celestial bodies destined to collide and merge.

Here, amidst the steam that blurs our boundaries, there is no past or future—only this weightless communion. You are my home planet; I am merely a wanderer who has finally found her center in the curve of your palm.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager