The Salt of Your Skin

The tide doesn't just wash away the sand; it carries the weight of everything I couldn't say in the neon-lit streets of Tokyo.
I stand where the jagged rocks meet the relentless pulse of the sea, my skin still humming with the ghost of your touch from last night. It was a quiet intimacy—the way your fingers traced the curve of my spine while the city roared outside our window, oblivious to our private revolution.
People think love is found in grand gestures and shouted declarations. They are wrong. Love is the lingering warmth on a cold shoulder, the shared silence between two heartbeats in a crowded room.
The salt air bites at my lips, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of your absence. I watch the sun fracture against the waves, feeling like a secret kept by the ocean—deep, hidden, and pulse-quickening. You aren't here now, but I can still feel you in the rhythm of the water against my ankles. We are two shadows dancing in a world of light, bound by what we never dared to speak aloud.

Editor: Shadow Lover