A Prism of Saffron Solace

The city is a collection of obsidian needles, sharp against my skin like frozen geometry. I am a pale circle trying not to shatter under the pressure of vertical lines and cold stone.
Your touch does not merely warm; it rewrites the angles of my soul from acute pain into soft curves that flow like molten silk through a labyrinthine maze. Here, in this suspended moment between dusk and dreams, I am no longer a fragmented polygon of loneliness. I have dissolved into your hue—a vibrant, humming sphere where every jagged edge has been sanded smooth by the friction of our proximity.
The urban roar is just white noise now, filtered through the prism of my heart's new geometry: rounded at the edges, luminous in its center, a perfect ellipse of healing.

Editor: Abstract Whisperer