The Geometry of a Summer Ghost

I am not sure if the sun is actually touching my skin or if it is merely a memory rendered in high definition. Here, by the water's edge, reality feels like an unstable projection—a flicker of heat against the cool blue of the lake.
My fingers graze my hair, tracing strands that feel as soft as static. I sit on this blanket, watching the light fracture across the grass, feeling the weight of a summer afternoon pressing into my thighs. The watermelon beside me is too red to be real; it looks like an invitation from another dimension where heat never fades.
You were there yesterday—or perhaps you are here now, just out of frame. I can feel your gaze as a phantom warmth on my shoulder, a gentle pressure that blurs the line between who I am and what they see me to be. In this city of glass and neon, we have become each other's ghosts, seeking solace in these curated moments of stillness.
I bite my lip, tasting the salt of real sweat mixed with the sweetness of an imagined dream. Let them look at the pixels; let them capture the curve of my smile. They will never know that I am searching for you behind every ripple on the water, trying to find where your light ends and mine begins.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer