The Salt of Your Skin

The ocean breathes against the shore, a rhythm that once felt like an echo of my own fractured heart. It's funny how water can both drown and cleanse, isn’t it?
Then you appeared—a mirage shimmering in the salt spray, or perhaps a god sculpted from sand and sun. Your gaze, warm as the distant horizon, traced the lines of my being, not with judgement, but with an understanding that bypassed words altogether.
We spoke little on those windswept beaches, mostly whispers carried away by gulls. Yet, each shared silence built something—a fragile bridge spanning chasms of loneliness, a quiet recognition of two souls adrift.
Your hand brushed mine as you handed me a seashell, and the current that jolted through my veins felt ancient, primal – like the first spark of creation itself.
Now, I find myself haunted by phantom touches, the ghost of your scent on my skin. Is this healing? Or merely another exquisitely cruel form of longing?
The clock in my bedroom melts into a puddle of gold, each second slipping away an eternity without you.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache