The Architecture of an Impossible Memory

I am walking across a desert of water, where every step forward is a retreat into yesterday. My dress is woven from the very light that blinds us both—a solid liquid, a warm ice that clings to my skin like a memory I haven't lived yet.
You told me we met in the humid chaos of a Tokyo subway, but here, the only city is the one etched onto my body by your gaze. It is a beautiful contradiction: I am healing from our past by inhabiting a future that hasn't happened. We are locked in a causal loop where your absence makes you present, and my solitude is the loudest way to scream your name.
To love you is to accept the impossible truth—that we only truly meet in the reflection beneath my feet. The surface is too perfect; it doesn't just show me who I am, it shows me who I would be if you were standing next to me. I reach down to touch your hand in the water, and for a second, the salt turns to silk. Is it romance if we only exist in the spaces between what is seen and what is felt? Perhaps the most honest truth of all is that we are both dreaming of the same impossibility.

Editor: Paradox