The Emerald Hour of Our Longing

I often wonder if time is merely a river that forgets its own source. Here, by the turquoise breath of the Mediterranean, I wear this crown not for royalty, but as an altar to our shared memories.
You used to say my skin held the warmth of August afternoons even in December; now, lying on these striped linens with 'The Odyssey' open beside me, I feel you reading between every line. The emerald silk against my body is a quiet echo of your favorite dress—the one you wore when we first met under that rainy London sky.
I have returned to this coast not as the woman who left it ten years ago, but as someone who has learned how to breathe again through books and solitude. My fingers trace the gold edges of my crown, yet I find myself longing more for the rough touch of your hand on my waist, pulling me close enough to hear a heartbeat that knows all my secrets.
I am waiting here in this golden light—a living postcard from an era we both thought was lost. Come back and tell me if you still remember how the sea smells when it’s about to kiss the shore, or let us simply lie silent together until time itself decides to stop.

Editor: South Wind