Sea Salt on Your Skin

The sunlight is too loud for this kind of morning. I’m still wearing the scent of last night—a mix of expensive gin, cold sea air, and your skin against mine in that rumpled linen bed.
I stand by the glass window, my fingers tracing an invisible map on its cool surface, watching cars glide past like distant memories. The world outside is moving too fast for us; we’ve created a slow-motion sanctuary here where time stretches thin and translucent, much like this dress you told me looked ethereal in the moonlight.
My head feels heavy with a sweet kind of fatigue, that delicious disorientation that comes after hours of whispered secrets and skin-to-skin honesty. I can hear your breathing from the other room—steady, deep, oblivious to the tide pulling at the shore below us.
I don’t want coffee or conversation yet. I just want to stay in this haze a little longer, suspended between sleep and waking, feeling the ghost of your touch lingering on my shoulder blades while I watch the blue horizon dissolve into gold.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn