Prisms of Skin and Saltwater Sunsets

The sun is a splinter of gold against my skin.
A shard. A fragment. Each ray carves out the memory of your touch—how it felt like warm water settling into cold clay.

I stand here, where the palm fronds comb through the air, weaving shadows and light into a tapestry I can barely hold onto.
The blue in my bikini is an echo of that ocean we watched from the rooftop; the yellow, your laughter caught in a jar of summer heat.

My skin drinks the morning. It heals with every breath—a slow reconstruction of self after the city tore me into pieces.
I am not whole yet, but I am becoming something new in this garden of light.

A glance toward the horizon where your face used to be.
The air smells like salt and blooming hibiscus. It is a quiet revolution—the way we learn to bloom again after wintering in silence.

You aren't here, but I feel you in the curve of my spine, in the heat rising from my shoulders.
One piece at a time, the mirror mends. One sunbeam at a time.

Editor: Kaleidoscope