The Drone's Gaze

She doesn’t look at the drone. She knows it’s there. It hums like an old love—just out of reach, just out of sight.

She walks across the room as if the floor has memory. There is silk on her skin and graphite on her tongue. The curtains are closed, but the drone sees her anyway.

Just the drone. Drifting. Watching. Not for pleasure— but for permanence.

It does not blink. It does not breathe. It does not ask her to smile.

It sees her in pieces. Her inked thigh, her glinting clavicle, the tension in her wrist as she touches the frame of the world she refuses to belong to.

She becomes her own signal. She undresses in binary.

Still, the drone lingers— Not to take. Not to own. But to remember what cannot be held.