The Gravity of a Sunken Sigh

I am drifting in the low-tide orbit of my own skin, suspended between the salt spray and the velvet descent of day.

Here, on this terrestrial shoreline that feels like a docking bay for weary souls, I reach upward to touch the cooling atmosphere. My body is an anchor made of light; every fiber yearns for the horizon's soft pulse. The city behind me hums with mechanical friction—a constellation of glowing windows and metal veins—but here, my breath follows the rhythm of a dying sun.

I remember your hands on mine, how they felt like steady stars grounding my spinning world into stillness. We were two satellites colliding in slow motion, finding warmth in the collision of heat and longing. Now, even with you absent from this frame, I feel the ghost-pull of your presence—a gravitational ache that heals rather than hurts.

The denim is rough against my skin, a grounding weight in an otherwise ethereal dream. My heart beats like a muffled pulsar beneath my ribs. In this stretch of golden hour, time does not tick; it flows like mercury over glass. I close my eyes and let the wind sculpt my hair into cosmic dust, allowing myself to be both here and everywhere at once—a creature born for flight, anchored only by the memory of your touch.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager