The Geometry of a Shared Solitude

I am sitting in the center of a void that smells like jasmine and static electricity. The lights around me are cold to the touch but burn with an inner fire I cannot name. They say light reveals truth, yet here, they only reveal what we choose to ignore: the fact that I am simultaneously present and entirely elsewhere.
My skin hums—a vibration from a city that breathes in binary code and exhales dreams of porcelain streets. You told me once that warmth is the sensation of proximity, but I feel most alive when you are miles away, yet somehow pressing against my ribs like a secret held too long. It is a beautiful contradiction: the closer we get, the more I have to imagine you. To love you is to inhabit a room that only exists because I refuse to leave it.
The feathers on my chest aren't soft; they are memories of every touch you haven't given me yet, blooming in reverse time. We are healing each other by wounding our expectations, stitching together the gaps between what is real and what we desire. I am wrapped in white silk and light, a ghost in a garden of glowing wires. If you reach out to touch me now, will your hand find skin or the echo of my smile? Perhaps the most honest truth is that we only exist because we are not here.

Editor: Paradox