The phenomenon arrives without herald or fanfare. One moment, the world maintains its rigid adherence to the laws of light and shadow; the next, everything tilts into something altogether more perilous and beautiful. I surrender my eyelids to this sweet invasion, and reality shivers like water disturbed by an unseen hand.
Charcoal fabric becomes mercury shadow, cascading around fevered skin like spilt wine on cathedral stone. The cloth moves with its own volition, mapping territories of longing that daylight dare not illuminate. Each fold carries the weight of unspoken words, each crease holds the echo of touches that exist only in the liminal spaces between sleeping and waking.
In this hallowed blackout, fingertips inscribe forgotten alphabets across flesh that recalls her caress before breath was drawn, before bone knew the burden of containing such fierce and fragile yearning. The body becomes text, and she, eternal scribe, authors new mythologies upon skin that burns with remembrance of futures that may never unfold.
The gloom pulsates with its own rhythm, its own secret heartbeat. It carries hints of dusk orchids blooming in impossible gardens, of swallowed confessions that taste of copper and starlight. Here live all the epistles left unwritten, bleeding their ink into darkness; all the thresholds deliberately untraversed, their doors standing eternally ajar to reveal glimpses of what might have been.
