The Soft Geometry of a Melting Tuesday

I pressed my palms against the soft, waxen planes of my cheeks and watched reality begin to drip. The city behind me was not made of stone; it had liquefied into a heavy amber syrup that poured endlessly down invisible mountainsides while I remained suspended in this perfect moment. My fingernails were tiny stained glass windows trapping light from a sun that doesn't move, glowing with colors stolen from the deep ocean where time is measured in centuries rather than seconds.

The man who walked me here—his voice soft like velvet dragging across floorboards of water—healed my jagged edges not by fixing them, but by letting us melt into one another until I couldn't tell where his warmth ended and mine began. We are two figures made of sugar dissolving in a cup of morning coffee; sweet enough to cure the bitterness of the waking world.

I am holding this feeling between my fingers like soap bubbles that refuse to pop, watching them float upwards into the sky as gravity forgets its job. The world is fluid here, and love is just another current I can drift on without fear of drowning.

Editor: Dali's Mustache