The Geometry of Sunbeams and Skin

The city outside is a loud, grey machine that never sleeps, but inside this room, time has decided to curl up and take a nap.
I am leaning against the wall—cool plaster meeting warm skin—while the sunlight plays hide-and-seek with my shoulder blades. I can hear him in the kitchen; the rhythmic clink of ceramic mugs and the soft hum of a radio playing something from another decade. It’s a domestic symphony, small and sacred.
He doesn't call me yet. He knows I am here, existing in this golden sliver between dreaming and waking. My body feels light, almost transparent, as if the sun is slowly weaving me into the architecture of our home.
I close my eyes and imagine his touch—not a grasp, but a ghost-kiss on the small of my back that sends shivers dancing down my spine like tiny silver fish in clear water.
In this apartment above three noisy avenues and one broken traffic light, we have built an island where silence is not empty, but full. I am just waiting for him to walk through the door, look at me bathed in light, and tell me that today—and every day after—is enough.

Editor: Cat-like Muse