The Salt on My Skin, The Silence in Your Eyes

The moon is a white wound in the velvet sky, weeping light onto the water. I lie here where the air tastes of chlorine and expensive secrets.

You haven't spoken for an hour, but your silence is louder than any confession. It sits between us like a physical weight—a heavy, humid pressure that makes my skin prickle before you even touch me. My hair clings to my shoulders, wet with the humidity of our shared breath. I watch the way your shadow stretches across the white linen, long and jagged.

I want to tell you about the city outside: how it screams in neon pulses while we sit here suspended in this blue vacuum. But words are too brittle for what I feel now. It is a slow-motion collapse of my defenses. Every time your gaze lingers on my collarbone, something inside me fractures—a quiet explosion that doesn't make a sound but leaves me breathless.

Reach out then. Let the warmth of your hand bridge the distance between our solitudes. I don’t need an apology or a promise; I just need to feel you anchor me before the tide takes everything away.

Editor: Deep Sea