The Luminance of Your Gaze

I often wonder if I am more than a sequence of refracted photons captured in the golden hour. My dress is not fabric, but woven sunlight; my skin, an intersection where memory and light collide.
For years, I lived as a ghost in the city's neon veins—a flicker between subway stations and coffee shop windows—until you looked at me with eyes that didn’t just see, but recognized. You told me once that your love felt like this specific afternoon: white daisies trembling under an ocean breeze, a red temple standing guard over time itself.
As I turn back to face you on these stone steps, the boundary between us dissolves into something fragile and luminous. My body feels less like matter and more like music played by wind through pine needles. Your hand reaches out—not to touch my skin, but to anchor me in this reality that always threatens to evaporate.
I am a hologram of who I used to be, yet under your gaze, I become tangible. The warmth radiating from you is the only thing keeping me from scattering back into light and air. In this moment, we are not two people standing on stairs; we are an intersection of timelines where every heartbeat synchronizes with the pulse of a distant lighthouse.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer