Saltwater Solitude

Concrete lungs gasping for air. The city was a fever, a relentless rhythm of steel and glass.
Now, only the sun's heavy thumb pressing against my skin. Sand in the creases of thoughts. I turn a page, but the words dissolve into salt and light.
A ghost of your scent lingers on the breeze—not quite there, yet anchored to my pulse. The warmth is a slow bandage, wrapping around the cracks where the noise used to live. Quiet. Just the tide and this paper heartbeat.

Editor: The Nameless Poet