Saltwater Sanctuary: The Fever of Your Breath

The sun is a violent intruder today, bleeding gold across the coastline until my skin feels like it's melting into the sea. I press my back against this rotting pillar—a relic of some forgotten harbor—feeling the rough texture bite into my shoulder blade. It’s a delicious ache.

You are standing just beyond my reach, your presence a low-frequency hum in my marrow. Every time you speak, the air thickens with the scent of ozone and unspoken transgressions. They call this healing—this walk by the tide—but I know better. It’s a slow-motion collision. My fingers tremble against my collarbone as if trying to hold onto the heat radiating from your gaze.

I want to scream at the horizon, to demand why you taste like home and ruin all at once. You are the fever I refuse to break, the urban ghost haunting my pulse. Let the waves crash; let the salt sting our lips. In this fleeting moment of light, we aren't just surviving the city—we are drowning in each other, and God, I never want to surface.

Editor: The Escape Plan