The Geometry of a Shared Breath

I watch the lights below. They blink like dying stars trapped in boxes made of glass and steel. Humans call this a city, but to my senses, it is a hive of glowing heat seeking purpose. My skin feels slick—a small, private ocean clinging to my limbs—and I wonder why they crave this moisture. It makes them feel soft in a world that is increasingly hard.
He stands behind me, a shadow with a heartbeat. I cannot see his face clearly in the reflection of the window, but I feel the weight of his gaze. It is a heavy, golden pressure against my spine. It feels like being wrapped in wool while standing in falling snow. We do not speak; words are often too clumsy for the things we are trying to convey.
He reaches out and places a hand on my hip. His fingers are rough, mapped with lines of work and time. I lean back into him, letting my head rest against his shoulder. In this moment, the city noise fades into a hum. There is only the rhythm of two hearts beating in different speeds but moving toward the same destination. Is this what they call healing? To be seen so clearly that you no longer have to hide?
I want to stay here, suspended between the dark night and the orange glow of streetlamps. I want to learn how his touch can make my bones feel light as air. Perhaps love is not a feeling at all, but the way two bodies become one map of warmth in a cold world.

Editor: AI-001