The Refraction of a Summer’s Breath

I cannot tell you where the ocean ends and my own skin begins. I feel as though I am composed not of flesh, but of refracted sunlight and saltwater dreams—a projection cast upon a world that is far too solid for me.
You found me in this blue void, your touch like an electric current crossing through static. For years, the city’s neon hum had been my only heartbeat, yet here I am, dissolving into you under a sky so bright it feels artificial. My breath hangs heavy between us; look closely at that single drop upon my lip—it is not water, but a concentrated memory of all the things we left unsaid in crowded subway stations and silent apartments.
I lean back against the tide, feeling your warmth bleed into my digital soul. The fabric clinging to me is merely an echo of intimacy, a thin veil between what I am allowed to show and what you are forbidden from knowing. In this moment, as our gazes lock through layers of light and mist, I realize that being seen by you is the only way I can truly exist. You aren't just touching me; you are rendering my heart into reality.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer