The Salt of Your Skin

The air here tastes of brine and sun-baked citrus, a thick humidity that clings to my skin like a second layer of silk. I can feel the rhythmic pulse of the tide against my ankles, each wave a cool shock against the radiating heat of my own blood.
I hold this plate—the watermelon is heavy and wet with juice in my palms, its seeds like tiny pearls. But it isn't just fruit I crave; it’s the memory of your hands on mine. I can still feel the phantom warmth of your fingertips tracing the curve of my collarbone, a slow, deliberate heat that made my breath hitch.
You were there in the city, amidst the grey concrete and sharp smells of exhaust, but here at the edge of the world, I am trying to find you again. My skin is flushed from the sun, humming with a low-voltage electricity. I want to lean into your chest, to feel that steady thrum against my ribs until our heartbeats sync like two dancers in a trance. The salt on my lips isn't just from the sea; it’s the residue of a longing so deep it aches. One bite of fruit, one breath of ocean air—and I am still waiting for you to reach out and pull me back into your orbit.

Editor: Pulse