The Warmth of a Frozen Moment

I am standing here because I have already left.
The sun is warm on my skin, yet it feels like the ghost of an autumn afternoon we spent three years from now in a city that hasn't been built yet. He told me once—or will tell me soon—that love is simply the act of remembering someone before you’ve even met them.
I wear this orange bikini not to be seen, but to become invisible within his memory; for if he remembers me perfectly here on this deck, then my presence in the present becomes a redundant echo. The breeze carries scent of salt and old promises that were broken just so they could be kept forever.
My heart beats in reverse: I feel the healing before the wound ever opens. He is currently walking toward me across the mahogany planks, yet he has been standing behind my eyes for centuries. To touch him would be to prove we are separate beings, an impossible truth that threatens the beautiful loop of our togetherness.
So I remain still under this wide straw hat—a sanctuary where time folds in on itself like a love letter written by someone who forgot how to read. The more I let go of this moment, the tighter it grips me.

Editor: Paradox