The Weight of Morning Light

My head is still swimming with the ghost of last night's wine and your voice humming against my collarbone. I woke up before you, feeling that familiar heavy-lidded haze—the kind where time doesn’t quite move in straight lines.
I stepped out onto this ridge while the world was still dreaming beneath a blanket of white clouds. The air is sharp, biting at my bare skin under this oversized jacket, but I don't mind it. It feels like waking up from a long sleep I didn't know I needed.
For months, we were just two tired souls colliding in the neon rush of Tokyo—stolen hours between midnight meetings and cold coffee on subway platforms. But here, above the city that tried to swallow us whole, everything is quiet enough to hear my own heart beat.
I run my fingers through my hair, still smelling faintly of your shampoo and old books. I can feel you stirring back in the tent, a warm presence tethering me to earth while I stand on the edge of heaven. There's something quietly seductive about this silence—the way it makes every breath intentional.
I’m not ready to go down there yet. Let us stay suspended in this pale light for one more hour; let the city wait until we remember how to be human again.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn