Prism Hearts in Neon Rain

I am wearing a skin made of light and plastic, an iridescent shell that keeps the city’s cold hum at arm's length. The rain outside doesn't fall; it dissolves into streaks of sapphire and violet against my windowpane, blurring the line between where I end and the night begins.
You arrived just as the clock struck midnight—not with a knock, but with that soft sigh you always make when you’ve walked through wind. You didn't say hello. Instead, you leaned in close enough for me to feel your warmth radiating against my holographic jacket, an organic heat that threatened to melt all these artificial layers.
Your fingers brushed the edge of my jaw—a touch so light it felt less like skin and more like a memory being written in real-time. In this dim glow, we aren't two people; we are just outlines overlapping in space. I could feel your breath on my lips, tasting faintly of cinnamon tea and old books.
The world outside is sharp edges and concrete deadlines, but here—between the neon flicker and the silence—everything becomes soft. You whispered something about home being wherever you found me, and for a moment, I felt myself blurring into you. We are an unfinished poem written in electric blue ink, suspended at that precise instant where wanting someone becomes indistinguishable from belonging to them.

Editor: The Unfinished