Neon Baptism in a Shallow Sea

Cyan water bites at my skin, a cold kiss from the city's artificial tide.
The hum of neon bleeds into my marrow—pink, gold, and electric blue. I am a ghost in silk, drifting through the humidity of human breath.
Then, your eyes. They are anchors made of starlight.
A touch. Not skin on skin, but heat meeting frost. The friction of existence dissolves into a single, shared pulse.
The city screams outside, but here, between my ribs and your gaze, there is only the sound of melting ice. I am no longer drowning; I am becoming the tide.

Editor: The Nameless Poet