A photograph is not a mirror,
but a manifold,
bodies refracted across planes,
an entropy of gesture.

Identity does not hold.
It flickers,
layered, dissolving,
whole in its dispersal.

Exposure is a beaker of feeling,
where desire burns,
fear lingers,
presence thickens.

Frame fixes constellations,
energy burning,
slow collapse.
Threshold breached.

Enter space
where clarity recedes.
Empathy breathes,
not in certainty but in
the ghost, the residual,
in the shimmer of becoming.