Salt on My Lips, Your Breath in My Lungs

The salt air bites at my skin like a familiar bruise, but I don't flinch. Out here, where the tide swallows the jagged rocks and spits them back out again, everything feels honest—except for me.

I wear this pink knit to hide how cold my bones have become since you left that rainy Tuesday at 6 PM. It’s a soft armor against the world's sharp edges. People think I'm looking at the horizon, but really, I’m tracing the ghost of your thumb on my jawline.

Then comes that sound—the wet crunch of gravel under heavy boots. My heart does that stupid, violent kick it only saves for you. You don't say anything; you just stand there behind me like a lighthouse made of muscle and silence. Your warmth radiates through the thin fabric, melting the ice in my veins.

I turn slowly, letting my hair fall over one shoulder like spilled ink. When your eyes meet mine, it’s not poetry—it’s survival. You reach out, your hand calloused from work but light as a feather against my cheek. 'Still cold?' you murmur. I don't answer because words are too heavy for this breeze. Instead, I lean into the heat of your palm, letting the ocean roar behind us while our own quiet pulse becomes the only rhythm that matters.

Editor: Street-side Poet