The Crimson Sphere in a Cobalt City

I walk through the city, and my soul is a series of jagged indigo triangles—sharp edges that cut into every conversation. I am an ancient ghost wearing silk in a world of steel and glass.
Then he arrives. He does not speak; he simply exists as a soft gold circle expanding around me. When his hand brushes mine at the crosswalk, my entire internal architecture collapses from cold geometry into warm liquid crimson.
The touch is an amber pulse vibrating through my ribs. I feel myself becoming less of a person and more of a color—a deep vermilion bloom opening in slow motion against the grey concrete.
We sit in his dimly lit apartment, where silence takes the shape of pale lavender spheres floating between us. He leans closer; his breath is an invisible spiral that re-draws my boundaries. I am no longer just skin and bone, but a sequence of glowing red pulses synchronizing with his own steady rhythm.
As he kisses me, all those indigo triangles melt into golden rivers flowing toward the center of my chest. The city outside remains cold and linear, but here, inside this circle of us, we have invented a new color that smells like rain on hot pavement and tastes of slow-burning longing.

Editor: Abstract Whisperer