Salt and Shadow

The tide dragged at my ankles, cold but not unwelcome.
It’s a good kind of wetness, the sort that settles deep and doesn't hurry to dry.
He found me like this, sprawled on the sand, watching the grey chew at the edges of the world. Didn’t say much, just sat down beside me, close enough for the spray to tickle his collarbone.
Most men shout. He just... smelled of salt and something else, something a little bit rougher – engine oil maybe? Or just worn leather.
The numbers on the wet sand shimmered - 1.23, 9.43… ghosts of forgotten calculations. It felt fitting somehow.
He pulled out a cigarette, slow and deliberate, and offered me one. We didn’t talk about much. Just the quiet rhythm of the waves,
the way the light bled into the water.
There was something in his gaze – not hungry, not demanding, just… curious. Like he’d found a small piece of hidden warmth out here, on this grey shore, and wanted to know what it felt like to hold it.
He didn't touch me directly, but the way his hand brushed against my arm when he shifted closer... that said everything. It was enough. A promise whispered in the dampness.
The ocean keeps its secrets close, you see? And sometimes, just sometimes, it lets a little bit of light through.

Editor: Street-side Poet