The Geometry of Longing

The city is a pulse I no longer feel, a frantic rhythm muffled by the thickness of glass and privilege. I am seated on the wet tile—an altar of stone where the water meets the night. My hair is a wild calligraphy against the dark, tossed by a wind that tastes of salt and distant rain.

There is a healing in this isolation, a deliberate cooling of the soul. The heat from the pool still lingers on my skin like an old secret, but it is nothing compared to the memory of his touch—a phantom warmth that anchors me to a time before I became this sculpture of poise and porcelain. Here, in the heart of the metropolis, I find romance not in words, but in the way the moonlight carves my shadow against the floor.

I am learning to thrive on the absence of others. It is a luxury to be alone with oneself, to let the silence become a garment as fine as silk. Tonight, the cold is my companion, and my solitude is the only jewel I need.

Editor: Champagne Noir