The Salt on Your Skin and the Light in My Eyes

I’ve spent three years scrubbing the city's grime off my skin and apologizing for existing in spaces I didn’t own. But here, with your hand resting just an inch from mine on this coarse sand, all that noise finally stops.
You told me you couldn’t do it anymore—the long hours at the firm, the empty apartments that felt like waiting rooms for a life that never started. And I didn't say anything; I just let my head tilt back and closed my eyes to feel the sun baking into my cheeks. It’s funny how we both came here broken in different ways, yet found ourselves fitting together like two jagged stones smoothed over by time.
I can feel you watching me—not as an object or a fantasy, but with that heavy kind of silence I only ever felt when I was truly known. The lace of my bra is scratching against me and the air tastes of salt and old memories, but for once, it’s enough. In this quiet corner between two worlds, you aren't just another person in my life; you are where I finally set down all my bags.

Editor: Alleyway Friend