The Needle Drops in the Garden of June

The city hums a low, steady bassline beneath the pavement—a restless rhythm of steel and glass. But here, in this corner of blooming jasmine and sun-drenched petals, time behaves differently. It stretches like honey on toast.

I can still feel the warmth of your hand against mine from last night's walk along the riverside. We didn't say much; words often clutter the silence when what matters is truly felt. Today, I let myself drift into this yellow dress—a color that tastes like citrus and feels like a secret shared between lovers.

I move through the flowers with my fists clenched slightly to my chest, capturing the air as if it were music you’re playing just for me. Every petal is a note; every breeze is a crescendo of healing after such an exhausting season of life. My heart beats in 4/4 time against my ribs—steady, classic, and deeply devoted.

You aren't here with me now, yet I see your shadow in the way light hits the grass. You are the crackle before a record begins to spin; you are the soul of every melody that makes this city feel like home. In this golden moment, let us be unhurried. Let us dance without moving, suspended between what was and what is yet to come.

Editor: Vinyl Record