Saltwater Static and Stolen Light

The air tastes like brine and cheap champagne, a heavy perfume that clings to my skin long after the crowd has dispersed. My hair is still damp from the tide, tangled in knots that feel like secrets kept too long. Behind me, the sky bleeds white light—the fireworks are dying out now, collapsing into ash-colored smoke that mimics the way my head feels after three hours of your voice against my neck.

You aren't here anymore, but I can still feel the phantom weight of your hand on my lower back. We sat on this sand until our skin turned cold, watching the city lights ripple in the water like broken glass. It was supposed to be a celebration, something loud and bright to mask the quiet ache of moving away, yet all I remember is the way you looked at me under the boom of a thousand explosions—a gaze so steady it made my pulse stutter.

I stand here now, a silhouette against the fading spark. The warmth of your thumb tracing my collarbone is still burning there, a tiny fire in a wintering soul. Maybe love isn't the explosion; maybe it's just this lingering heat on a cold beach, the way the salt dries on my lips while I try to remember if I was dreaming or if you were actually real.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn