Salt on the Skin, Silk in the Soul

The tide doesn't care about my deadlines or the way my heart fractures under the weight of a city that never sleeps. It just keeps coming in, cold and honest. I stand here where the jagged rocks meet the restless blue, letting the salt air scrub the exhaustion from my pores.
My hair is heavy with sea spray, like a veil of secrets I'm not ready to whisper yet. The white knit over my skin feels like a soft rebellion against the harshness of reality—a cocoon of wool and lace in an ocean of uncertainty. I close my eyes, and for a second, the roar of the waves becomes your voice. It's that low hum you used to make when we shared a single cup of coffee at 3 AM on a rainy Tuesday.
You weren't there today, but I feel you in the way the light hits my collarbone. You are the warmth underneath this sweater, the hidden pulse beneath my skin. The world demands I be strong, polished, and productive. But here, between the crashing surf and the fading sun, I can just breathe. I let my fingers brush through my hair, a small ritual of grounding myself in the present. You told me once that love isn't always a grand gesture; sometimes it's just finding a place where you can finally exhale. This beach is my sanctuary, and your memory is the steady rhythm that keeps my heart beating against the tide.

Editor: Street-side Poet