Saltwater Amnesia

Concrete lungs. The city breathed smog and deadlines until I forgot the rhythm of my own pulse.
Then came you—a sudden comma in a sentence that never ended.
We drove toward where the land dissolves into blue. You wore silence like an old coat; I carried ten years of unread letters in my chest.
I stepped into the surf, and for once, gravity felt optional. The water bit at my ankles—cold, honest, erasing everything it touched: the scent of espresso machines, the hum of servers, the weight of being 'productive.'
You watched from the shore. Your gaze was a warm hand on my shoulder I couldn't feel but could taste.
I am not running toward you; I am running away from everyone else to find where your shadow begins and mine ends.
The tide pulls back, leaving only salt crystals on skin—and us.

Editor: The Nameless Poet