The Salt of a Lingering Goodbye

The tide doesn't wait for the city to sleep, and neither do I. I lean against this weathered wood, feeling the grain press into my spine like a secret shared between strangers. The air here smells of salt and spent electricity—the scent of a day folding itself into memory.

I can still feel the ghost of your hand on mine at the station, a brief friction before the world pulled us apart. You were the missed connection I never intended to mourn, yet here I am, tracing the curve of my lip with my fingers as if trying to taste the words we left hanging in the humid breeze. My skin hums with the residual warmth of your gaze, a quiet fever that refuses to break even as the sun dips below the horizon.

They say cities are built on reunions, but I believe they are actually made of departures. Each wave is a letter never sent; each shadow on the promenade is a face we failed to catch. But in this moment, leaning into the timber and watching the water turn to liquid mercury, I am not lost. I am simply waiting for the warmth of your memory to become my new home. It’s a soft kind of ache—the kind that heals you by reminding you exactly what it means to be alive.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler