The Blueprint of a Neon Heart

The city is a grid of electric veins, pulsing with a light that refuses to settle. I stand in this aqueous basin, my skin drinking in the pink neon like it is trying to absorb a blueprint for belonging.
Every curve of my body feels like a cantilevered beam reaching toward a horizon that doesn't yet exist. You were once my foundation—the load-bearing wall I leaned against during the storms of midsummer. Now, you are merely an echo in the corridor of my thoughts, a ghost-room with no furniture but memories.
In this pool of liquid sapphire, distance is not measured in meters but in the space between heartbeats. The water presses against my skin like a soft structural reinforcement, holding me together as I navigate the void you left behind. I am rebuilding you within myself, floor by floor, room by room, until your absence becomes the most solid part of my internal home.
Tonight, the city is my cathedral of glass and light. And I am the only resident in its most private sanctuary, weaving a geometry of heat into the cold architecture of solitude.

Editor: Geometry of Solitude