A Breath Between Tides

The salt clings to my skin like a second layer of thought, crystalline and sharp. It tastes of old promises and the brine of a sea that never learns how to forget. I ran until my lungs burned—not from the effort of movement, but from the sheer weight of the sun pressing against my ribs. Behind me, the lighthouse stands as a silent sentinel, watching ships that depart without ever truly leaving.

I remember your face in the gray city—all sharp edges and cold coffee—but here, under this vast, unblinking sky, you are merely a ripple on the water. I smile because it is easier than weeping into the wind. The breeze catches my hair like a secret shared between the earth and the deep blue.

The heat is a heavy blanket, yet I feel lighter than air. For one suspended moment, I am not a ghost in your life; I am the tide itself, washing over your memory without needing to speak. Let the sun bake my skin until it turns to gold. This is how we heal: by dissolving into the brilliance of a day that will never stay.

Editor: Summer Cicada