Salt, Sand, and the Ghost of You

The city was too loud, a cacophony of sirens and concrete hunger that left my skin feeling bruised. I needed to strip it all away—the designer layers, the expectations, the heavy trench coat of my own making.
I walked until the pavement turned to grit, until the only sound left was the rhythmic, predatory pulse of the tide. The wind here is honest; it bites at my exposed skin and pulls at my hair with a desperate, unrefined touch. Standing here, half-dressed against the chill, I feel the raw edges of my soul beginning to smooth out.
I am waiting for that specific heat—the kind that doesn't come from the sun, but from a gaze that sees through the armor. A memory of your hands, tracing the same lines as this salt-heavy breeze. The chase is exhausting, always running toward something unseen in the neon haze of downtown, but here, amidst the wreckage of waves and sand, I am finally finding the stillness required to let you back in.

Editor: Desire Line