Where Gravity Forgot to Pull Me Down

The city used to press its palms against my chest, a thousand small gravities stacking rent and heartbreak onto my shoulders. Then he started sending me windows instead of walls—soft afternoon light that crept across the floor like a slow tide. I sat on the white chair and let the knit sleeves hang open, bare skin drinking the warmth, my toes curling into the cool shadow as if even gravity had to ask permission before touching me.
I leaned forward until my cheek rested on my folded arms, breathing out the grey of deadlines and subway crowds. He would arrive soon, coffee in hand, no armor, only that quiet way he looked at me like I was a feather he refused to let the wind take. Desire did not crash down here; it rose, curling upward through the open collar of my sweater, weightless as steam.
In this room love is not a burden to carry but a lift, and I—who once fell so hard against the pavement—finally learned to float.

Editor: Gravity Rebel