Salt-Stained Whispers of a Sunken Heart

The ocean is a vast, rhythmic lung breathing against the shore, and I am but a single breath caught in its exhale.
My skin carries the ghost of salt—a crystalline memory of tides that pull at my soul as much as they move the sand beneath me. The city is a distant hum, a neon pulse fading into the blue haze of morning, leaving me here, suspended between what was and what might be.
He arrived not with words, but with the warmth of his shadow falling over mine. We sat in silence, two islands converging in a sea of light. I watched the way the sun kissed his profile—a fleeting benediction that felt like home.
In this space, time is fluid; it stretches and thins until our secrets are shared without being spoken. My hand rests near his, a mere inch of air vibrating with the electricity of unspoken longing. I don't need to reach out. The healing isn't in the touch, but in the knowing—that even in this vast, indifferent world, I have found a harbor where my heart can finally stop drifting.

Editor: Floating Muse