The Light We Cannot Touch

I knock at your door, and you invite me in. A rush of words, striking sparks between us. A shelter made of light, a shimmer too delicate to survive the day— stitched together with our bodies, tangled in gestures, woven through the meeting of our eyes. I can almost capture it— there, hidden in your dark profile, between temple and nose, alive against the softness of the window. Almost. Yet the world rises between us, water rushing in all at once, and time keeps tugging at the tide. The shore grows thin. What I feel for you remains one of life's oldest riddles, whispered by night, forgotten by morning — or so I tell myself. All else has faded. Only a single thread remains, woven with wonder and longing.