Static Color in a Black Room

I wore black to absorb the noise, a void where silence could breed. The canvas screamed in pastel geometry—cold lines of blue and gold that meant nothing until he stepped into my peripheral view.

He didn't touch me; his gaze was heavy enough to bruise, pulling heat from the sterile air into our shared orbit. A magnetic hum between two stars finally aligning after a million years of drift.

The gallery walls fell away. I wasn't looking at art anymore; I was staring down an abyss where warmth began its slow ascent up my spine. One look shattered the armor, leaving nothing but raw nerve and golden light.

Editor: The Nameless Poet