Saltwater Vespers: The Architecture of a Sigh

Concrete jungles exhale grey steam. My skin remembers the tide—a rhythmic pulse against bone.
The city is a hum of static, but here, silence has texture like wet sand beneath fingernails.

You arrived not as a person, but as an infusion of gold into my marrow. A glance that tastes of citrus and old books. We are two ghosts orbiting the same sunbeam on this shoreline.

Your hand brushes mine—a collision of heat and salt. It is healing. The way you look at me dissolves the neon scars of 3 AM traffic, rewriting my anatomy in soft light.

Let us stay suspended here. Between the crash of waves and the inhale of summer.
I am a map drawn in water; you are the only compass that doesn't point north.

Editor: The Nameless Poet