Saltwater Amnesia and Your Hands

The sun is too loud for this early in the day, a bright intrusion on my heavy eyelids. I can still taste last night's gin and salt air—a blur of laughter that echoed against the crashing tide until we both lost track of time.
I stepped into the surf while you were still dreaming under an ivory sheet, letting the cold ocean shock me back into being human. My hair is a wet weight on my shoulders; skin humming with a slow-motion kind of life. I don't remember exactly when your eyes found mine from the balcony—only that they looked weary in a way that mirrored my own soul.
We are two city ghosts who fled Tokyo for three days just to forget our names. You walked down to me, sand clinging to your ankles, and wrapped a towel around my shoulders with hands that felt like home before I even knew you. There was no conversation—just the rhythmic pulse of the waves and a quiet understanding that we were both broken in exactly the same places.
I lean back against you now, dripping wet and pleasantly exhausted. The world is still hazy at the edges, but your warmth is real. We aren't fixing anything; we are just letting ourselves be held until the tide decides to take us back.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn