Salt on My Lips, Sun in My Veins

The sun is a heavy weight on my eyelids, thick and golden like honey poured over raw nerves. My head still hums with the residue of last night—the clinking of ice in glass, the low vibration of your voice against my collarbone, the way the city lights blurred into neon smears. Now, everything is too bright, too quiet.

I sit on these sun-bleached planks, letting the salt air scrub the noise from my brain. The wood is warm beneath me, a steady heat that feels like an anchor in this drifting morning. I can still taste you—a ghost of smoke and expensive gin lingering on my tongue. It’s a beautiful kind of ache, the kind that only comes when you’ve let someone see behind your porcelain mask.

I close my eyes and listen to the tide pulling at the shore, dragging the day away before it can even begin. My skin is tight with sea spray and warmth. For a moment, I don't have to be anything for anyone. No deadlines, no expectations, just this slow, deliberate pulse of light hitting my chest. You were a fever dream, but waking up in this glow? That’s the only kind of healing I care to find.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn