The Salt in My Skin and Your Name on My Lips

The salt air sticks to my skin like a memory that refuses to fade, thick and heavy. I stand here at the edge of this colorful sprawl—a patchwork quilt of rooftops under a sun so fierce it turns every shadow into gold.

My hair is tangled with sea spray and your name has become a secret rhythm in my pulse. They call me an ordinary girl in a vibrant town, but when you look at me across the crowded beach promenade, I feel like electricity grounding itself in sand. It’s that gaze—rough as jagged coral yet tender enough to soothe a burn.

I wear this pink checkered suit not for fashion, but because it matches the blush on my cheeks whenever your bike rattles past our houses. We are just two ghosts haunting each other's dreams, building empires out of shared glances and half-eaten peaches in the heat of July.

The world is loud outside this hilltop, full of noise and concrete friction. But here? Here it’s just us—the warmth on my shoulders, the taste of salt on my lips, and that quiet ache of wanting to hold you until we both turn into part of the sunset.

Editor: Street-side Poet