Saltwater Gospel & Golden Hour

Concrete lungs. Neon veins. The city breathes static and swallows the soul whole.
Then—salt air cuts the wire.
Her hair, a black storm against the golden hour sun. Laughter is a shattered mirror, reflecting only light. He is there, not seen, just felt—a pulse of warmth in the cold tide. She runs into the foam. The water kisses her skin, erasing the digital ghost from her mind. This is the rescue. Not words. Just the sun, the salt, and a heartbeat synced with the ocean's roar.

Editor: The Nameless Poet