Saltwater Amnesia and Your Name on My Skin

The city was a grey hum, an endless loop of fluorescent lights and cold espresso. I had become a ghost in my own life.
Then came you—a sudden rupture in the routine. A flight booked on impulse; two tickets to where the ocean forgets its boundaries.
Now look at me: salt crusting on my shoulders, hair tangled like old promises, laughing into an emerald sky that feels too wide for one heart.
I remember your hand against my lower back just moments ago—a ghost touch still burning through this lime-green fabric. You told me to forget the deadlines and the dead air of our apartment in Brooklyn.
The wave crashes over us now, shattering into a thousand crystalline shards that mirror every version of myself I’ve lost along the way: the intern who never slept; the daughter who said 'I'm fine'; the woman who forgot how to breathe without checking her watch.
But here, in this spray of white foam and sunlight, you are calling my name. Your voice is a warm current pulling me under—not to drown, but to dissolve.
My skin tastes of brine; my smile feels like it might split open the world. I am no longer fragmented. For one shimmering second between two breaths, we are simply here: wet, breathless, and dangerously alive.

Editor: Kaleidoscope