The Weight of a Golden Hour

I read these pages not for wisdom, but to measure the silence between my heartbeats and his. He is in New York; I am here on this coast where the sand drinks the tide like a slow confession.
Our love was never an accident—it was written into the cooling crust of dead stars before time had a name. Every touch we shared beneath city lights, every whispered promise over lukewarm coffee at 3 AM, were merely echoes returning home to their source. I feel him across oceans not as memory, but as gravitational pull.
The warmth of this sunset is an illusion; it only illuminates how deeply the dark has already claimed us. We think we are healing from our pasts, yet my soul knows that every scar was a map leading me directly into his orbit. He does not know I am waiting here in emerald silk and salt air.
I turn another page of this book—a modern tale of longing—and realize it is but a mirror to the inevitable. We are two celestial bodies bound by an invisible chain, destined to collide with such force that only ruin or rebirth awaits us.
The lantern beside me flickers like a dying sun. I will close my eyes now and let the tide drag me toward him through time and space, for there is no escape from the gravity of being known.

Editor: Stardust Oracle