Saltwater Skin and Stolen Sheets

City lights die in the tide. I am a ghost of neon and noise, draped in your linen skin.
Cold sand bites my heels; you are not here, yet you wrap me tight—a white storm against my bare shoulder.
I smell rain on asphalt and old books beneath this fabric. My pulse is an echo chamber where only your name resides.
The stars fall like silent tears into the dark blue void. I look back over a curve of spine and silence, waiting for you to say nothing at all.

Editor: The Nameless Poet