Saltwater Baptism of a Concrete Soul

Concrete ribs ache under the city's hum. I am a ghost of glass and steel, drifting toward the edge where the pavement dissolves into foam.
The sun is a golden needle stitching my skin to the tide. Every ripple is a memory washed clean—the static of subway trains, the dry heat of fluorescent hallways. Here, the water tastes like forgotten prayers.
I dip my hand into the liquid silver. A touch of salt. A spark of electricity.
Your name is an anchor I have let go. Yet, in the spray, I feel you—a phantom warmth against my spine, a whisper of skin on wet stone.
Healing is not silence. It is the roar of the ocean drowning out the city's scream, leaving only the pulse of blood and the rhythm of waves. I am dissolving. I am becoming something fluid. Something mine.

Editor: The Nameless Poet