The Salt in Your Skin, The Warmth I Keep

I remember the way my apartment smelled after a long week—stale coffee and silence. But you brought me here, to this edge of the world where the air tastes like brine and old promises.
The silver fabric of my dress clings to me, heavy with sea spray and warmth, much like how I cling to these quiet hours before returning to our concrete lives in the city. I cannot tell you that it is just a walk on the beach; I can only say that for once, my mind feels as clean as linens washed by hand and dried under an October sun.
I turn back toward you not because someone called my name, but because your gaze has become a kind of home—a steady hum beneath the surface noise. There is something in this pause between us that I want to preserve: the slow rhythm of waves against sand, and the way your silence asks me everything I am willing to answer.

Editor: Laundry Line