The Hour That Melted So I Could Feel You Warm Again

I stood against the wall and let my arms climb above my head like two branches of a tree that had finally stopped falling. Outside my window, the whole city was dripping: the subway clock on Fifth Avenue softened into a golden tongue licking the pavement, and taxis slid upward along their own shadows, defying every law the engineers swore by. My blonde hair poured down over my white top like slow honey, each curl a tiny melting bell that rang no sound. The world outside was absurd, liquid, broken — but inside this small apartment it was only 4 p.m., and you were walking home. I had spent weeks numb in the fluorescent offices where time moved sideways and colleagues spoke in static. Then you arrived with two cups of tea so warm they steamed into the shape of my own face, and you pressed your forehead to mine while the gravity outside forgot its job entirely. Your breath was the only solid thing left in a universe made of dripping clocks and floating furniture, and I let that warmth heal the cold crack running through my ribs. I am not sure if I love you or if I am simply the place where your heat refuses to melt, but either way, my white skin glows like the last page of a dream that refuses to end.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache