Salt on My Skin, Your Name in My Head

The sun is a bruised apricot, bleeding into the Pacific line while I stand here with sand still clinging to my thighs like memories that refuse to wash away. My hair is heavy, sodden with brine and salt—a crown of wet silk that smells faintly of ozone and your cologne.

I can still feel the ghost of your hand on the small of my back as we watched the tide retreat. It was a quiet kind of intimacy, nothing loud or desperate, just two bodies leaning into each other against the vastness of the water. In this city, everything is so sharp and jagged; here, time stretches out until it feels like honey dripping from a spoon.

You’re probably already awake in that apartment three blocks away, nursing your coffee with eyes still clouded by sleep. I should call you. Or maybe I'll just let the warmth of this dying light settle over my skin for five more minutes before I have to become someone else again. For now, there is only the rhythm of the waves and the lingering taste of salt on my lips—a delicious, aching reminder that tonight we didn’t just watch the sun set; we lived inside it.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn