Salt on the Tongue, Gold in the Veins

The city is a ghost limb—aching, phantom weight against my skin. I carry its concrete pulse in my marrow until I reach the edge of the world.

Here, time dissolves into salt. The board is an altar of white wood; the water, a baptism of silver needles. Sunbeams pierce through the mist like golden stitches, sewing my fractured thoughts back into one seamless fabric.

I remember your coffee-stained hands, the way you traced my palm in a crowded subway—a secret city within a city. Now, I stand where the land surrenders.

The wind steals my hair, braiding it with sea spray and memories of us. Each wave is a syllable of healing. I am not running away; I am returning to myself. In this light, your face isn't a memory—it’s the warmth beneath my ribs, the steady rhythm of a heart beating against the tide.

Editor: The Nameless Poet