A Taste of Moonlight on My Skin

I remember the first time he made me warm milk with a hint of honey and cinnamon—a simple drink, yet it carried the weight of all the comfort I’d forgotten how to ask for. My life in the city had become like an over-seasoned dish: too sharp, too salty, lacking any real depth.
Tonight, as I sit on this cool sand under a pale moon, my skin still humming from his touch and that same scent lingering in my mind, I realize how much flavor he’s added back into my world. He doesn't speak of love; instead, he prepares it—slow-simmered stews on rainy Tuesdays or crisp apples sliced thin for midnight conversations.
I feel the breeze brush against my bare shoulders and think of a recipe for peace: equal parts silence, salt air from the tide, and the kind of warmth that only comes when someone knows exactly how you take your tea. My heart is like one of those slow-cooked meals—tenderized by time, infused with care, and finally ready to be shared.

Editor: Midnight Diner