The Geometry of a Sigh

The city outside is a blurred watercolor of rain and neon, but inside, I have stripped away the noise. Color is a lie told by the daylight; here, in the gray hour, only texture remains.

I press my palms against the cold wood of the sill, feeling the vibration of distant traffic. My skin is slick with water—a ritual of shedding the day's dust. The candle flame is my only companion, a single point of defiance against the encroaching dark. It does not illuminate; it defines.

I see you in the reflection of the glass—not as a face, but as a shadow merging with mine. We are two silhouettes seeking warmth in a world made of concrete and glass. You aren't here yet, but your memory is the steam rising from my skin. I lean into the void, waiting for the moment when your touch will erase the line between my body and the night.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost