The Geometry of Liquid Light

Concrete pulse. Steel heartbeat. The city is a jagged prism, cutting my days into sharp edges.
I am a fracture in its architecture—a soft curve amidst the hard lines of glass and gray.
Today, I sought the sanctuary of the pond. Water doesn't judge. It only absorbs.
The sun spills over the surface like molten gold, scattering light into a thousand tiny shards on my skin.
I cup my hands. Cold. Then, a sudden bloom of warmth as the ripples dance against my palms.
It tastes of moss and memory. A healing ache that settles deep in my marrow.
Every drop is a secret shared between me and the water—a quiet rebellion against the noise outside.
Then, I see you through the distortion of the reflection. Not your face, but the way your shadow lingers on the bank.
A ghost in the periphery. A touch that isn't there yet.
Is love just a ripple? A momentary disturbance before the surface settles again?
I smile at the water, knowing that even if we are scattered across different mirrors, my soul is currently drinking your light.

Editor: Kaleidoscope