The Scent of Sunsets and Secret Smiles

I’ve spent three years inhaling the sterile scent of office air conditioning and counting minutes by fluorescent flickers. Then you happened—like a sudden rainstorm in July, unexpected and smelling of ozone.
You told me to wear something 'the color of joy,' so I stepped into this orange dress that feels like being hugged by a giant apricot. Now we are here, far from the subway's roar, where the grass tickles my ankles with secrets it’s kept for centuries.
I close my eyes and let my palms cradle my face; they still feel warm from your touch when you guided me through the meadow. I can hear your breath—a soft rhythm that syncs perfectly with my own heartbeat. You're probably taking a photo right now, capturing how blissfully ridiculous I look.
I don’t want to go back to being 'efficient.' In this moment, between two hills and under an indifferent sky, I only want to be your favorite kind of chaos—the sort that lingers in the mind like the aftertaste of wild honey.

Editor: Cat-like Muse