Between Salt Air and Your Last Whisper

I am suspended in a space that refuses to be defined—halfway between the rusting iron of this old wheel and an endless, sapphire sky. The wind carries more than just salt; it brings back your voice from three summers ago, blurring into my skin like warm paint on wet canvas.
Down there, the city is a grid of deadlines and cold coffee shops where we first learned to love in whispers between meetings. But here, perched at this dizzying height in nothing but red silk against sun-kissed flesh, I feel myself unraveling from all those rigid edges. My toes brush the air, searching for something tangible that isn't there yet.
I close my eyes and imagine you are standing just below me, your gaze tracing the curve of my waist as it dips beneath the wind’s touch. The boundary between memory and desire becomes porous; I am no longer sure if I have returned to this coast or if I never truly left our last embrace in that rainy Tokyo alleyway.
The gulls cry out like forgotten promises, their wings slicing through a reality that feels too fragile to hold. For one shimmering moment, the world is not made of concrete and schedules but of warmth—the kind that seeps into your bones when you realize being alone doesn't mean being empty.
I will stay here until my skin turns gold from the sun or until you call me back down with a voice that sounds like home. Until then, I am simply an outline in motion, waiting for our stories to merge once more.

Editor: The Unfinished