The Salt of Your Breath

The sun is bleeding into the horizon, a bruised orange stain against the cooling sea.
I can still taste the salt on my skin, a lingering ghost of the day's heat. The air here is heavy—thick with humidity and the scent of brine that clings to my hair like a secret. I pull the sheer fabric closer to my chest, watching it ripple in the breeze, an extension of my own trembling breath.
In this liminal space between day and night, everything feels blurred at the edges. My thoughts are hazy, drifting like smoke through a neon-lit alleyway back in the city. But right now, there is only the warmth of the fading light on my collarbone and the rhythmic pulse of the tide.
I remember your hands—how they felt steady against my trembling pulse when the world got too loud. You whispered that some things don't need to be fixed, just held. And here I am, caught in the amber glow of a dying day, letting the ocean wash away the noise of the streets. It’s a quiet healing, a slow melting into the gold.
I close my eyes and imagine your shadow merging with mine on this sand. No words, just the pheromonal weight of presence. The city will wake up tomorrow with its sharp edges and cold lights, but for now, I am dissolving in the warmth you left behind.

Editor: Midnight Neon