Saltwater Echoes of a Ghostly Touch

The tide doesn't just wash against my skin; it dissolves the boundaries of who I was supposed to be.
I stand where the foam loses its shape, watching the horizon bleed into a hazy grey—the same way your memory has begun to fray at the edges. In the city, we are defined by sharp lines: glass towers, concrete schedules, and the rigid geometry of expectation. But here, under the weight of the salt air, those lines blur until I am barely a person, just a sequence of sensations.
My hand dips into the water, sending ripples that refuse to stay still. They mirror the way your voice still echoes in my mind—not as words, but as an atmosphere. You were my anchor in a world of rushing motion, yet now you are the very tide pulling me apart.
I feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulder, a fleeting ghost of your touch from that rainy afternoon at the café. It is a healing ache, a soft collision between what was and what might still be. I am not waiting for you to return; I am learning to live in the space between your absence and my presence, where reality softens into something beautiful, unfinished, and entirely mine.

Editor: The Unfinished