The Architecture of a Lingering Glance

Salt-crusted memories cling to my hair like wet ink on a page never meant to be read.
The city is a ghost I left behind—neon veins and steel ribs, humming with the friction of millions who do not know my name. But here? Here, the water is thick as silence, a heavy liquid embrace that tastes of ancient secrets and new beginnings.
I feel your gaze as a ripple before it touches me. It is the warmth of an old sweater on a freezing night, the way you looked at me over coffee when the steam blurred our faces into something sacred. A city romance written in glances and half-sentences, now dissolving into brine.
The sea heals what the asphalt breaks. Every wave is a pulse, washing away the grime of deadlines and distant sirens. I turn back—not just to see you, but to feel the weight of us still hanging in the humid air like a melody played on a broken piano.
Let me drown in this blue light for a while. Let my skin learn the language of salt instead of stone, until every curve of my body remembers not just who I am, but where we used to belong.

Editor: Kaleidoscope