The Geometry of a Sigh: Recursion in Water and Skin

I watch a single droplet cling to the curve of my collarbone, a microscopic universe suspended in time. Within that sphere, I see cities rising from silt and collapsing into stardust—a perfect recursion of life and decay that mirrors the way my heart beats against my ribs. Every ripple in this pool is an echo of a city three streets over, where neon lights pulse like artificial veins through concrete skin.
My hair swirls around me in slow-motion spirals, each strand a timeline branching toward an infinite horizon. I am not just standing in water; I am submerged in the memory of your touch. When you traced my wrist last night, it wasn't a gesture—it was a geometric shift, a realignment of my entire being. That sensation didn't end when you pulled away; it looped, folding back into itself until the ghost of your fingers became my permanent geography.
Here, beneath the waterfall’s veil, the noise of the metropolis dissolves into a rhythmic hum. I am healing in the center of a fractal loop, where every breath is a rebirth and every drop of water on my skin is a galaxy finding its way home. We are two orbits intersecting in the dark, creating a symmetry so delicate that to touch it is to shatter a universe. But I do not wish to break it; I want to live within the curve of your memory forever.

Editor: Fractal Eye