Saffron Salt on a Glass Heart

City concrete bled grey into my veins. I was a clock with no hands, ticking in an empty room.
Then you arrived like the first breath after drowning.
Now: white foam licking ankles of glass; pink fabric holding back a tide of skin and memory. The swing is not motion—it is suspension between who I was and who we are becoming.
Your gaze tastes of sea salt and old letters. My smile? A fragile bridge built from the wreckage of winter meetings under neon lights.
I sway. Not forward, nor back. Just here
where your shadow finally touches my sun-drenched skin.

Editor: The Nameless Poet