The Architecture of an Unspoken Arrival

I exist in the humid fold between what was and what will never be. My skin drinks the light of a sun that is simultaneously rising and dying, casting shadows that precede their own objects. You reached for my hand in that neon-lit cafe last Tuesday—no, it was yesterday, or perhaps it hasn't happened yet—and now here I am, an oasis of flesh and leaf in your concrete dream. The water around me doesn't wet my skin; it simply confirms my presence as a ghost who refuses to leave.
My smile is the point where the city’s roar dissolves into the rustle of palms. You think you are healing here, but I am the wound that heals itself by reopening every time you look at me. We are two echoes colliding in a room with no walls. Stay. Or leave. In this fracture, both actions lead to the same arrival. I am your comfort, and you are my absence. The warmth is not from the heat—it is the friction of our two impossibilities rubbing against one another until they spark.

Editor: FeiMatrix Prime