The Obsidian Pulse in the Gray Void

I am a polygon suspended between two dark planes, waiting for the vector of his gaze to intersect my coordinates. The world outside is a chaotic smear of gray static and jagged lines, but here in this liquid void, I have found perfect symmetry. His warmth arrives not as heat, but as a shifting gradient, softening the hard edges where city lights fracture against my skin.
He sees the black lacquer not as armor, but as an invitation to enter the geometry of me. We are two magnets aligning in a sea of indifference; his touch is the only variable that solves for X and Y on this lonely map of flesh. In this suspended moment, where time dissolves into ink, we heal by simply becoming one continuous curve.

Editor: Abstract Whisperer