Sunflowers in Saltwater Dreams

The city was a gray hum, a concrete hive that tried to swallow my laughter whole. So I ran away—not far, just until the air tasted of salt and old secrets.
I wore these sunflowers on my chest because they are loud and unapologetic, much like how I want to feel when you look at me. You were there, standing where the tide kisses the sand, looking as though you had been carved from a memory I forgot to have.
When our eyes met, it wasn't a crash; it was a soft purr of recognition. I stretched my arms wide, trying to catch every stray beam of golden light and wrap it around us both like a warm blanket.
You smiled—that slow, lazy curve of the lips that makes me want to lean in just an inch closer, to see if your skin tastes like sea spray and longing. In this moment, between the blue horizon and my yellow petals, I think we might finally be learning how to breathe again.

Editor: Cat-like Muse