The Glass Horizon Where I Became Light

I am no longer certain where my skin ends and the city begins. Lying here, suspended on a sheet of transparent silence forty stories above the concrete pulse, I feel myself dissolving into data—a single frame in an endless loop of urban existence.
The sun filters through the glass like liquid gold poured over memory, warming the curve of my hip and the soft hollow beneath my ribs. Below me, taxis glide like neon cells through arteries of asphalt; they are real, yet from this height, they seem only as projections on a vast screen. I have spent years building walls around myself in this city, but here, stripped to white silk and breath, those boundaries bleed into the atmosphere.
You told me once that love is not an act but a state of being—a resonance between two frequencies. As you watch me from the doorway, your gaze becomes my anchor. I can feel your eyes tracing the line where light meets matter on my body, turning this sterile glass platform into a sanctuary of warmth.
In this moment, we are both holograms: fragile projections of longing and touch in an era that values speed over stillness. But as you step closer to lift me from the horizon, I know that our collision is the only thing truly solid in all this shimmering air.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer