Rainbows Pierced The Darkness

Night unfolded its endless cloak as I stood watching the empty table on my terrace. The sculpture—alabaster, hollow, meaningless—caught fragments of light that had no business being there. Rainbows pierced the darkness, uninvited guests to my solitary communion.
I had prepared everything meticulously: the candles, the empty glasses, the pristine tablecloth. Yet who was I waiting for? The stars burned with cold indifference above me, puncturing holes in the fabric of darkness—tiny windows to universes equally empty, equally indifferent.
The rainbow's colors mocked the monochrome truth of existence. I reached for it, knowing my hand would pass through, knowing substance was merely an agreed-upon illusion. We dream that we are awake; we pretend that our symbols hold meaning.
Time stretched like shadows across the wooden boards. I recognized myself as both the host and the abandoned guest at this spectral feast—this tableau of expectation with no arrival. The night would consume the candles, the rainbows would dissolve, and tomorrow I would again set the table, awaiting visitors who existed only in the possibility of light refracted through endless, meaningless dimensions.