Balcony at 19:01, more like 18:38 but moments take longer to process.

Light filters into cracks. Every avenue lit by rays that move, cast shadows and project shapes that shift– dancing with each minute as it passes. I belong to sight. An observer to the momentary presence of life that emerges in Golden Hour.

The corporate woman. An office space. Imagine her with coarse brown hair, olive skin and thick framed black glasses slowly slipping from the edge of a Roman nose. Scratched lenses. Perhaps her nails are chipped from days of typing. Perhaps she wiggles her toes in pointed leather loafers and twists her back to release tense muscles that pop. Perhaps she is looking at me.

The woman behind the curtain. A bay window; no balcony. She is the exception. Eight stories high. She moves into view, only for a moment. A guitar sits in the window and I wonder if it has ever been played. She floats. Naked back with tied hair. Then, gone.

The couple. Their balcony floods with gold. She emerges through parted net curtains in an oversized black t-shirt, no logo (presumably his). Her hair is dark, tied back in a messy bun. She lights a cigarette (of course). A slim frame drowning in a t-shirt that preserves her decency and yet, announces her bareness. Then, him.
A purple buzz cut, topless. Muscular tanned skin that glows like melted copper in a forge. Each muscle ripples like fish scales under the moonlight. Standing in front of her, he breathes her in– stroking her face and kissing her neck. He returns inside. For a moment, they glow, pulse, vibrate, melt, alter, purr, swell and dissipate.
Their love, the reminisce of love that outlines their bodies like ultraviolet light.