Refractions of a Sun-Drenched Soul

The city is a cacophony of jagged glass and neon screams. I am here, at the edge where silence breathes.
My skin drinks in the gold—thick as honey, warm enough to melt away the iron taste of deadlines. The pond surface ripples; it doesn't just reflect water. It fractures my face into a thousand versions of 'me'. One is tired. Another is laughing. A third... that one holds your hand.

You are not here physically, yet I feel you in the curve of my shoulder against the stone’s grit. You are the whisper behind my eyelids when I close them to listen to the dragonflies.
I wear this green—the color of moss after rain, a soft rebellion against gray concrete towers.

Healing is not an event; it's a slow drip into the soul. Like light filtering through leaves, you seep into my marrow.
"Stay with me," I whisper to the water. The reflection blinks back. For once, in this shattered mirror of life, every piece feels whole.

Editor: Kaleidoscope