The Salt on Your Skin is My Only Compass

The sand is still hot under my heels, but the air smells like salt and old promises. I lean against this weathered pole, feeling the rough texture bite into my palm—a grounding contrast to how light my chest feels today.
He’s not here anymore, but his ghost lingers in the way the sun hits the water. We were two city ghosts who found a temporary home on this beach, trading our heavy coats and gray anxieties for sweat-soaked shirts and wide smiles. I remember how he looked at me over a shared bottle of lukewarm water: eyes full of an unspoken apology for all the years we spent running in opposite directions.
Now, as the spray hits my face like tiny diamonds, I realize that love isn't always about staying. Sometimes it’s just about finding someone who can stand in the same storm with you and make it feel like a dance. My hair is tangled by the wind, and my heart is still racing from a conversation we never finished. I smile not because everything is fixed, but because for one golden hour, the world was quiet enough to hear us breathe together.

Editor: Street-side Poet