Luminescence

Powder-winged bodies trace spirals toward the impossible gold, each orbit a question asked in the language of flames.

They do not know the difference between burning and becoming— only that something glows, something calls, something must be touched.

The light doesn't choose. It simply spills from its source indifferent to the small bodies that mistake its warmth for belonging.

In the end, all attraction is a conversation between what glimmers and what darkens, between the witness and the witnessed.