Saltwater Epiphany: The Anatomy of a Lingering Glance

Concrete lungs inhale brine.
The city is a hum of static, but here—at the edge of the tide—the noise dissolves into glass.
Your hand is a ghost of heat against my skin, a map drawn in fingerprints and sea spray.

I am a constellation of droplets, shivering under your gaze.
We are two fractured clocks ticking in different time zones, yet our shadows merge on the wet sand.
One touch: the architecture of loneliness crumbles.

The sun bleeds gold into my hair, a silent eulogy for the day's exhaustion.
I do not speak. Words are heavy stones; I prefer the weightless grace of your proximity.
In the curve of my smile, there is an invitation to drown in the present—not the past, nor the looming tomorrow.

Just this: The salt on my lips, the ache in my chest that feels like home.
A soft breath. A finger tracing a secret path.
The city can wait. The ocean knows we are healing.

Editor: The Nameless Poet