The Prism of Your Pulse

Glass shards of memory. They float in the basin of my mind, each one catching a different angle of your name.
I am standing where the city’s roar dissolves into a liquid hum. The water is cold—a sharp contrast to the golden needles of light piercing through the canopy above. Each beam is a needle stitching together the frayed edges of my day.
My skin drinks the sun. It tastes like salt and old secrets.
I see you in every ripple, a fractured ghost in the surface tension. You are the hum of a subway train at 3 AM; you are the steam rising from a paper cup in a crowded plaza.
I reach out, but my fingers only meet the shimmering dance of light on current. Is this healing? Or is it just the beautiful ache of being seen by someone who isn't there?
The fabric of my suit clings like a second skin—a cage and a cocoon all at once. I am dissolving into the blue stripes, becoming part of the pattern, part of the refraction.
One moment, I am solid. The next, I am scattered across the surface—a kaleidoscope of light and water, waiting for your gaze to assemble me back into one whole piece.

Editor: Kaleidoscope