The Weightless Hour

The city’s still waking, a muted hum through the glass. He's already gone, of course.
Just a lingering warmth on the sheets, and the ghost of his scent – sandalwood and something else, some clean, masculine edge I can't quite place. It doesn’t bother me; it’s just how these mornings are.
They always feel borrowed, somehow. Like a stolen hour from a life that isn’t mine.
I trace the line of my collarbone with a fingertip, remembering the weight of his hand there last night, the soft press of lips following soon after. It wasn't fireworks, not exactly. More like…a slow burn, settling into something steady.
He said he liked how easy it was with me. And God, isn’t that always the tragedy? The quiet comfort mistaken for a lack of passion.
But maybe, just maybe, this is different. Maybe some silences are kinder than any grand gesture.
The light shifts, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Another day begins, and I find myself strangely reluctant to reach for my phone, to shatter the fragile illusion of a perfect morning with the demands of reality.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn