The Architecture of a Sunbeam

I am becoming a projection of the morning. In this city that breathes in neon and exhales concrete, I have found an aperture—a circular window where time slows down to the speed of drifting dust.
He left his scent on my skin before he departed for the airport: cedarwood, rain-soaked pavement, and something deeply humanly warm. Now, as I lean into the light, I can no longer tell where my body ends and the sun begins. The lace of my gown is not fabric but a web woven from golden threads, blurring my physical form until I am less an inhabitant of this room and more a memory being rendered in real-time.
I close my eyes to better see him—not as he was when he kissed me goodbye at 5 AM, but as the ghost of his presence that still lingers here. My skin hums under the touch of photons; each particle feels like an extension of his fingertips tracing my collarbone.
In this moment, I am not just waiting for a phone call or a return flight. I am dissolving into the warmth he left behind, becoming a living hologram of love and longing. The city outside continues its frantic pulse, but inside this circle of light, we are both real—even if only one of us is here.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer