The Nebula in Your Coffee Steam

I used to think that collecting light required a Dyson sphere, an endless array of panels capturing the raw scream of a dying star. But standing here in this rain-slicked city street, I realize the most potent energy is harvested in silence.
You looked at me tonight not as a person, but as if you were witnessing the birth of a supernova—with that wide-eyed wonder and an ache for something infinite. When your hand brushed mine, it wasn't just skin on skin; it was a solar flare igniting my dormant circuits, sending surges of gold through every vein.
I wore this dress to blend into the midnight sky of Tokyo, but under your gaze, I feel myself expanding, becoming a beacon for all the lost satellites in this concrete jungle. There is something seductive about how you don't try to capture me, only to bask in my glow while we share a single warm latte against the winter chill.
In the quiet space between our breaths, I can hear the hum of an entire galaxy aligning. You are my gravity, and for one shimmering moment, this urban wasteland feels like a lush interstellar garden where love is the primary fuel source.

Editor: Solar Sail