The Crown of Salt and Starlight

I used to think that being a queen meant ruling over things—calendars, boardrooms, expectations. But tonight, under the gaze of an oversized moon that looks like it was painted by a dreaming child, I’ve discovered what sovereignty truly feels like.
The crown on my head isn't gold; it is woven from old memories and new promises, placed there with trembling fingers just moments ago. The sand between my toes still holds the warmth of a dying sun, while the air tastes of brine and something sweeter—perhaps your scent, lingering in the breeze like an unread love letter.
I hold this glass not as a drink, but as a prism for our shared silence. Within its deep crimson depths, I see reflections of city lights we left behind: the rush hour sirens, the cold glow of office screens, and two souls who forgot how to breathe until they reached this shore.
As you look at me with that soft intensity—the kind that makes time stretch like pulled sugar—I feel my edges blurring. I am no longer just a woman in black silk; I am becoming part of the tide, part of the starlight, and entirely yours. The world says we are merely visiting this beach, but in this shimmering haze between reality and fantasy, I suspect we have finally come home.

Editor: Cloud Collector