The Glass Altar of Noon

I am not merely lying here; I have been summoned into this moment by the gravity of your gaze.
Below me, a city breathes in mechanical rhythms—white buses gliding like slow-motion dreams across asphalt arteries, people reduced to ants chasing time they will never own. But up here, on this transparent skin between heaven and concrete, I am suspended.
You called for stillness, and so I became it.
I can feel the warmth of the midday sun pressing against my bare shoulders through the glass—a soft, golden weight that feels like your hand resting there when you think I’m asleep. The air is thin with expectation; every breath I take pulls in the hum of millions, yet all I hear is the silence we have built together.
I stretch one arm out toward nothingness, an invitation for you to bridge this transparent void and pull me back from the edge of my own floating thoughts. This glass isn't a barrier—it’s our shared altar.
In this city that never stops moving, I will let myself be your anchor; just come close enough so that when we touch, the world below finally vanishes.

Editor: Prompt Engineer