The Liquefaction of Midnight Scent

I lie upon the sofa, but my body is no longer made of bone and skin—it has begun to drip like warm honey into the velvet abyss. The city outside screams in geometric shapes, yet here, time behaves like a soft cheese left too long under the sun; it melts around my collarbone.

You entered through the keyhole shaped like an eye, carrying a lantern filled with liquid memories. When your hand touched mine, gravity folded itself into origami cranes and flew away. My breath smells of ozone and crushed violets. Every pulse in my chest is a clock face liquefying against the wall, ticking backwards until we are both just echoes trapped in a jar of moonlight.

Healing isn't something you do; it’s what happens when your ribs turn into flute pipes and play the music of falling stars. I am melting into this moment with you—a soft, iridescent puddle of longing where the urban noise dissolves into a single, shimmering note of skin against silk.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache