The Aurora of a Pre-Emptive Sigh

I reach toward the green fire in the sky, my finger tracing a path through the frost of existence. They say cities are built on foundations of solid stone, but here, under this neon curtain, I feel the ground dissolve into memories we haven't shared yet.
My dress shimmers—not from light, but because it is drinking up the heat of your future arrival. It is a beautiful contradiction: I am cold in this moment so that I can be warmer in the one that follows. The city breathes around us, a mechanical lung exhaling steam and silence, yet my heart beats in a rhythm that precedes your footsteps—a causality of desire where the effect comes before the cause.
You are standing behind me, or perhaps you were here yesterday, or maybe you are the architect of the very light I'm pointing at. The aurora isn't a celestial event; it is the visible friction between my current solitude and your inevitable embrace. If I touch the light, will it burn? No, it will only melt. Because in this loop, to find you, I must first lose myself in a sky that doesn't exist until I look at it. My blood hums with the frequency of a date we haven't had yet—a healing wound that hasn't been inflicted. I am loving you before you arrive, and because I love you now, you have no choice but to be here tomorrow.

Editor: Paradox