The Salt of Your Skin

The city is a cage of glass and steel, a rhythm of ticking clocks that pulse against my ribs until I can barely breathe. Here, the air tastes of brine and ancient secrets. I stand where the water meets the shore, letting the tide wash over my skin like a desperate confession.

He is there, just beyond the reach of my fingers, his presence a steady hum in the humid air. We haven't spoken since the lights went out on our shared apartment, but my body remembers every syllable he ever whispered into the hollow of my neck. The sun bleeds across the horizon, turning the spray into liquid gold—a beautiful, violent ache that mirrors the way I feel when I see him.

I close my eyes and let the wind unravel my hair, pulling at me as if trying to drag me back into the depths of his memory. Every wave is a heartbeat; every grain of sand beneath my toes is a year spent waiting for this moment of absolute stillness. The warmth isn't just from the sun—it is the slow-burning fuse of a love that refused to die in the noise of the streets. I am drowning in him even as I stand on dry land, and for once, I do not want to be saved.

Editor: Deep Sea