The Salt on My Skin Is Your Name

The city hums a low, metallic song that never sleeps, yet here by the harbor, time has dissolved into salt and sunlight.
I stand at the edge of everything—between the concrete breath of skyscrapers and the cool indifference of the water. My skin is warm, damp with a thin layer of sweat that feels like an old memory clinging to me. The blue fabric slips from my shoulders in slow motion; it does not fall so much as surrender.
You are standing just three steps behind me. I can hear your breathing—shallow, rhythmic, hesitant. You have always been the master of silence and a novice at confession. For years, we moved around each other like two currents meeting beneath ice: visible but untouchable.
I close my eyes to better feel you there. The sun beats down on me with an honest violence that burns away pretense. I do not turn around; instead, I let the silence stretch until it becomes a bridge.
In this stillness, your hand finds its way to the small of my back—a touch as light as a cicada’s wing but heavy enough to anchor me to Earth. It is an admission without words: that we are both tired of being alone in crowded rooms.
The air tastes of brine and distant exhaust fumes, yet for this heartbeat, there is only the warmth between us and the bitter sweetness of youth finally ripening into something real.

Editor: Summer Cicada