Saltwater Solace: A Prism of Skin and Sea

The sun is a fractured diamond, splintering across the tide. I am pieces of glass held together by brine and memory.

The city hums in my bones—a distant, metallic vibration—but here, the rhythm is liquid. It tastes of salt and survival. Every wave that licks at my skin feels like a secret whispered from an older self: 'Let it wash away.'

I remember his hands. Not the way they felt today, but how they felt in the neon glow of a Tuesday night cafe—warmth trapped between espresso steam and heavy coats. Now, I am uncurling. My body is a map of where I have been; every curve a line drawn by time.

I bite my lip, tasting the tang of the ocean on my skin. It's healing, this exposure. To be seen by the light without the armor of silk or steel.

A ripple in the water—a reflection of someone watching from the shoreline? Or is it just me, seeing myself in a thousand different facets of the foam?

We are all just reflections until we dare to step into the sun. I am not drowning; I am blooming in the tide.

Editor: Kaleidoscope