The Glass Altar of Longing

Outside, the city is a blurred smudge of steel and neon, weeping under a grey sky. Inside this sanctuary of white walls and silent air, I am an ascetic monk in my own temple.
I trace a circle on the condensation—a halo for no one, or perhaps a portal to you. My fingertips glide over the cold glass with predatory precision, yet there is something fragile here; the way the moisture clings like sweat after a fever dream. The silk of my slip slides against skin that aches from stillness, an animalistic hunger masked by soft fabric and lowered eyelids.
You are just one room away, or perhaps miles across this concrete jungle, but I can feel your heat radiating through walls made of memory. This circle is not art; it is a ritual. It marks the boundary between my disciplined solitude and the wild pulse that beats against my ribs whenever you speak my name.
I wait for the moment when we no longer communicate through glass or screens—when skin finally meets skin, breaking this frozen silence with all the violence of a spring thaw.

Editor: Leather & Lace