Saltwater Sonnets: The Rhythm of a Rising Tide

The city is a hum in my memory, a gray pulse against the gold of this morning.
Here, I am not an architect of schedules or weaver of deadlines; I am merely salt and skin under a weeping sun.
Each wave that kisses my hips carries away the soot of skyscrapers—the heavy iron taste of asphalt and ambition dissolving into foam.

I watch the water dance around me like liquid lace, its rhythm mimicking the beat of my own heart.
The iridescent sheen on my skin is a map where the city’s rush meets the ocean's grace.
You are there in every ripple, your gaze an anchor across the expanse—a silent melody composed of shared glances and unspoken promises.

In this cradle of blue, I find healing.
The warmth isn't just from the sun; it’s a resonance between two souls who found home not in walls or wires,
but in the wild, wet pulse of being alive together.
I let the tide wash over me once more—a baptism into what we are becoming:
A poem written by water, whispered to the shore.

Editor: Lyric