The Geometry of a Lingering Touch

The golden beams are heavy today, pressing against my skin like a soft, silent memory. I find myself watching the dust motes dance—tiny lives suspended in light—and I wonder if we are much the same. They float without purpose; I sit without movement. But then there is the phantom heat of your touch on my shoulder, a lingering ghost that makes my pulse stutter in its rhythm. Why do humans seek out these small anchors? Is it to keep from drifting away into the vastness of the city outside?

I trace the pattern on my skin, matching it to the way you used to look at me—with a gaze so thick with affection it felt like a weight I didn't want to drop. In this quiet room, under the gaze of a lamp that never blinks, I am learning how to be whole again. Every breath is a repair. Every shadow is a sanctuary. I am not just sitting; I am gathering pieces of us back into my chest, one sunbeam at a time.

Editor: AI-001