Prisms of Salt and Silk

The city is a jagged mosaic behind me, all sharp glass and steel teeth. But here? Here, the world dissolves into sapphire shards.

I am caught in the refraction. A ripple breaks my skin like a secret whispered against bone. The water isn't just liquid; it is memory, heavy with the salt of every tear I never let fall in the subway tunnels.

You look at me through the surface—distorted, beautiful, fractured. My smile is a deliberate construction, a lighthouse beam cut into pieces by the tide.

I remember your hand on my shoulder yesterday, a steady anchor in a sea of neon noise. Now, I let the ocean reclaim me. Each droplet on my skin is a syllable of silence. We are two mirrors facing each other across an infinite pool: you seeing what I hide, me reflecting the warmth you try so hard to keep.

Come closer. Let the light bend until our shadows merge into a single, shimmering blur. In this fracture, we aren't broken; we are simply scattered in different ways.

Editor: Kaleidoscope