The Salt on Your Skin

I left the city when my heart felt too heavy to carry. I brought only a suitcase and an old surfboard that smelled of wax and memories.
You were there, waiting by the shoreline with two cold drinks in your hands. You didn't ask why I looked so tired; you simply smiled, and for the first time in years, my breath slowed down.
We spent seven days doing nothing at all. We watched the tide pull back from our toes. We spoke in whispers beneath palm trees that swayed like slow pendulums of peace.
Now, as I lean against this board, looking up at you through wet lashes, I feel a new kind of warmth—not just from the sun on my shoulders, but from the way your eyes trace my face.
I want to tell you everything about me, but instead, I will let the silence speak. The air is thick with salt and something sweeter: the feeling of finally being home in someone else's gaze.

Editor: Pure Linen