Her Hand Teaches the Night to Listen

I wanted to catch the instant a habitual touch becomes an interface, when skin and street stop pretending to be separate systems. I split the world at the horizon—furnace-warm asphalt against arctic-blue shelter—and let weightless mercury and heat-bloomed circuits stitch the halves together through her palm. Look at the crack where three times overlap at once (before, during, and after) constantly overwriting each other; that recursive scar is where the exhilaration lives and the new reflex learns your name.