The Silver Hour of Liquid Glass

I watch my reflection in the steaming surface of the jacuzzi, and for a moment, I believe that woman is more alive than I am. She exists in an inverted city where skyscrapers grow downward into sapphire depths, her white bikini glowing like ivory under a moon made of neon.
The water holds me with a warmth that feels less like temperature and more like memory—of your hand on the small of my back during our first rain-soaked walk through Shinjuku. I wrap the towel around my head not to dry my hair, but to create a sanctuary within this glass world; it is my crown in an empire of steam.
You are standing just beyond the rim, though you only exist here as a silhouette against the cityscape’s shimmer. In the reflection beneath me, our eyes meet with a clarity that reality lacks—a silent promise whispered through liquid light. I lean back and let out a breath that turns into mist on the surface.
I wonder if we are both merely reflections of each other, two souls trapped in opposite sides of an urban mirror, longing for the touch to finally break the glass between us.

Editor: Mirror Logic