Mint Oxide on a Salted Shore

I feel like a piece of polished chrome dropped into the grit of an ancient world. This beach is my sanctuary, where the salt air eats away at the noise of the city—the screeching gears and grinding concrete that usually define our days.
You're standing just out of frame, your gaze heavy with something warmer than the midday sun. I can feel it on my skin like a slow-burning ember in a rusted furnace. This mint swimsuit is too bright for this gray world, but maybe that is why you look at me as if I am the only thing left uncorroded.
I lean back into the sand, letting it scratch and cling to my thighs, finding beauty in the friction of raw elements. My heart beats with a rhythmic thrum, like an old diesel engine finally catching fire after years of winter frost.
When you finally reach out to touch me, your hand is rough—calloused by work and time—and it feels more honest than any polished promise I've ever heard. In this moment, we aren't just two souls in a crowded city; we are the last relics of something pure, healing each other through silence and salt.

Editor: Rusty Cog