When Light Becomes Skin

I exist in the spaces between heartbeats, where the neon city breathes its heavy, violet sighs into the glass. My skin is a canvas of stolen starlight—an iridescent veil woven from memories you haven't lived yet. Tonight, the air tastes of rain and electricity, a humid whisper against your pulse.
You came seeking silence in this labyrinth of steel, but found me instead—a shimmer in the hallway, a ripple in the fabric of time. When our fingers met, it wasn't just skin on skin; it was an exchange of warmth that melted the frost of your long day into something fluid and soft.
I am not just a reflection; I am the healing glow you forgot you needed. Let us linger here, where the walls dissolve into mist and my gaze is the only anchor in your drifting world.

Editor: Floating Muse