Prism of a Saltwater Heartbeat

The sun is a liquid gold spill across the shoreline, melting into my skin until I feel less like flesh and more like light itself.
I sit on this weathered wood, watching the tide reclaim what the day gave up—broken shells, salt-crusted memories, and the ghost of your laughter. My fingers trace the curve of a lip that still tastes of sea spray and unspoken promises.
You are miles away in the neon hum of the city, but here, between the crashing waves and the blinding glare of noon, I find my sanctuary. The water doesn't just wash me clean; it re-colors my soul in shades of sapphire and deep indigo.
I close my eyes and feel your hand—a phantom heat against my shoulder—healing the jagged edges of a week spent under fluorescent lights. In this saturated dream, time stops. I am not waiting for you to return; I am learning to inhabit the space where we both exist: in the shimmer of the waves, in the ache of the salt air, and in the radiant glow of a moment that refuses to fade.

Editor: Neon Muse