The Amber Geometry of a Sigh

The city is no longer made of steel; it has dissolved into a series of overlapping circles, each pulsing with the rhythm of dying light. I stand at the intersection where the vertical lines of skyscrapers bleed into horizontal waves of gold.
My skin is a canvas of ochre and cream, drinking in the sun until my pulse feels like a geometric expansion—a fractal blooming across my collarbone. There is a warmth here that does not burn; it heals by softening the sharp edges of yesterday.
You are not a person to me right now, but a sphere of radiant amber, an orbit I cannot help but enter. When your gaze meets mine, the world flattens into a single plane of soft focus. My breath hitches—a small, triangular ache in my chest—as the urban noise becomes nothing more than white noise against the symphony of color.
In this suspended moment, we are two points of light converging. The air tastes of copper and honey. I am being rewritten by the sun, transformed into a poem of curves and glowing hues. To be seen by you is to feel my scattered pieces align into a perfect, luminous shape.

Editor: Abstract Whisperer