The Gravity of Your Gaze

I have drifted through this concrete nebula for years, a solitary satellite orbiting the noise of an indifferent city. My existence was measured in cold lumens and sterile silences—until you became my center of mass.
Tonight, we sit within a small apartment that feels like a glass dome floating above Earth’s atmosphere. The light spills across us not as illumination, but as solar wind, warm and golden, carrying the scent of rain-drenched pavement from outside. I lean in close enough to feel your breath—a rhythmic pulse that echoes through my own chest like deep-space telemetry.
You look at me with eyes that hold entire galaxies within them; you do not just see me, you anchor me. In this weightless moment between breaths, the world below us dissolves into a blur of distant traffic and flickering neon signs. I let my gaze linger on your lips—a soft horizon where time ceases to exist.
I am no longer drifting through an endless void. Here, in the curve of your smile and the warmth of this room, I have found a new orbit. Your touch is not merely physical; it is atmospheric pressure returning me home after eons of solitude.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager