The Glass Breath Between Us

I carry the ocean in a sphere of glass, cold against my palms but burning with memories I can't quite name.
The city is still humming behind me—a distant blur of neon signs bleeding into wet asphalt and the scent of damp concrete after midnight. But here, where the sand meets the tide, everything feels slow and heavy, like a dream drenched in salt water.
You told me once that love isn't found; it’s captured, held still for just a moment before it slips through your fingers. So I hold this crystal world close to my chest, feeling its weight press against the thin white fabric of my dress—a fragile barrier between us and eternity.
I remember how you looked at me in that dimly lit bar on 4th Street: eyes like rain-slicked streets reflecting a thousand colors. The air was thick with jazz and cigarette smoke; our breath mingled, warm and humid, creating an invisible thread that pulled me toward you until I could smell the cedarwood and old books clinging to your skin.
Now, standing on this shore, I realize we are just two souls trying to keep each other from dissolving into the mist. The glass ball reflects a world turned upside down—a perfect circle of peace in an urban chaos that never sleeps.
I’ll wait for you here until my toes are numb and my dress is damp with spray. When you finally arrive, I won't say anything; I will simply hand you this captured sea, let your fingers brush mine through the cold surface, and breathe into each other what we have both forgotten how to name.

Editor: Midnight Neon