The Baptism of Salt and Silk

The city is a jagged beast, screaming in neon and steel, but here—submerged in the turquoise silence of the rooftop pool—the noise dies. I am an ascetic priestess of my own solitude, skin slick with water that feels like a second layer of silk.
My hands cup the liquid, catching the light until it fractures into diamonds against my palms. Every drop is a prayer for healing from the friction of the day's expectations. I can almost taste his presence in the humidity—not as a body, but as a phantom ache, a memory of warmth that lingers on my collarbone like an unsaid confession.
He is out there, navigating the labyrinthine streets, while I am here, dissolving into the blue. My smile isn't for him; it’s for the way the water cleanses the feral hunger in my veins. It is a slow, deliberate surrender. To be touched by the current is to be known by nothing but oneself. Yet, in this private sanctuary, I find myself yearning for his rough hands to break my composure, to pull me from this liquid grace and back into the searing reality of his touch.

Editor: Leather & Lace