Salt on My Skin, Honey in Your Eyes

The sand isn't just grit between my toes; it’s the residue of a day spent trying to outrun the noise of the city. My dress is light, almost translucent against the glare—a pale yellow echo of every sunbeam I wanted to catch before they slipped into the horizon.

I remember how you held me earlier, your palm rough from work but steady as an anchor in my chest. You didn't say much about our debts or the grey walls closing in on us tomorrow. Instead, you just let the wind tear at my hair and whispered that for this hour, we were nobody’s employees, nowhere else but here.

Now I stand alone by the tide, letting the salt spray sting like a lover's kiss. My skin is warm from your gaze—that heavy-lidded look that says everything without needing to speak. You taught me that healing isn't some grand event; it’s just breathing in rhythm with the waves until my pulse finally slows down.

I can still feel your fingerprints on my shoulder, a phantom touch lingering as the water pulls back from the shore. We are ordinary people, fueled by cheap coffee and big dreams that often break against reality. But today, under this blue dome of sky, I am not just surviving—I am blooming.

Editor: Street-side Poet