They did not stay where the roads were safe,
where the clocks still ticked and the neighbors knew their names.
They walked to the edge of the last mountain —
the one that tears through clouds like a held breath —
and then they jumped.

Not away from something. Toward.

Her dress caught the wind the way a white sail finds the sea it was always made for. His hand held hers the way a door holds a hinge — not as a cage, but as the reason it can open.

Below them, the whole world dissolved into cotton. The cities, the noise, the years of almost — all swallowed by a sea of clouds that asked nothing of them.

And above?
A sky bleeding its most honest colors:

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Orange like the first time she laughed in his direction, red like the moment he decided to stay, blue like every quiet morning that came after.

Somewhere between the earth they left
and the crescent moon that waited —
patient, gold, unhurried —
they found the only altitude that matters:

the one where two people become enough of a world to stop needing another.

The moon had watched ten thousand sunsets, witnessed ten thousand vows exchanged in borrowed halls. But rarely — so rarely — had it seen two souls still dancing after the ground disappeared.

Some love stays rooted in the soil.
Some love grows wings.

Theirs simply forgot there was ever anything beneath their feet.

— written for the ones who leapt