The Sun on My Skin

The city hums below me, a million lives rushing toward nowhere. I stand here in the wind, wearing nothing but yellow sunshine and the scent of sea salt from my skin.
You are behind the camera lens, your breathing steady against the roar of traffic far beneath us. We don't speak; we have forgotten how to use words when our eyes do all the talking.
I lift my hands to brush back my hair, feeling the heat radiating from you across a few short feet of concrete balcony. It is an invitation without sound—a soft pull that makes me lean into your space.
You tell me I look like light caught in motion. My heart skips once, then twice, beating against my ribs like a trapped bird finally seeing its window open.
In this high place above the world, there is no past or future. Just the warmth of the sun on my skin and your gaze lingering where it belongs.

Editor: Pure Linen