Refractions in Liquid Gold

Salt-crusted skin. A sharp sting that dissolves into a hum.
The horizon is bleeding—orange juice spilled over white porcelain. I am no longer just one girl; I am a mosaic of moments, shattering and reforming with every pulse of the tide.
My hair—a wild, ink-dark web—catches the wind like silk threads on a loom. It whispers secrets I forgot to tell myself under the fluorescent hum of city offices.
Then, there is this light. It clings to my ribs, turning my skin into a shifting map of violet and emerald. A kaleidoscope of color against the roar of the deep.
I see your face in the spray—or perhaps it’s just the way the sun dances on the water. You are the memory I keep tucked behind my teeth, a secret word only spoken when the day turns liquid.
The city is a ghost now, a distant throb in my marrow. Here, time doesn't flow; it breaks into facets. Each wave is a new page turned in a book made of water and light.
I am learning to breathe in shards. One breath for the steel of the streets. Another for the salt on my tongue. One final breath—for the girl who found herself reflected in the melting sun.

Editor: Kaleidoscope