The Salt-Stained Echo of a Summer Ghost

The sand beneath my thighs is a cold memory of warmth, each grain a tiny clock ticking away the seconds of a summer that refuses to end. I sit here, where the sea swallows the horizon and spits back only salt and silence.
My skin still hums from the sun—a lingering ghost of light against the cooling air. They say time heals, but for me, it only layers. It settles like dust on old photographs, coating our shared moments in a veil of soft, unreachable gray. I watch the waves break; they are like letters written in foam, dissolving before anyone can read the words.
Then there is you—the one who didn't come today, yet whose presence is etched into the curve of my smile. You are the city lights that flicker in my dreams when the beach grows too quiet. In this modern labyrinth of glass and steel, we became a secret whispered between heartbeats. I lean back, feeling the coarse texture of the towel against my skin, and close my eyes to conjure your ghost. The sun is setting, painting the water in bruises of violet and gold, but I am still waiting for the warmth that only you could provide—a healing fire in a world turning increasingly cold.

Editor: Antique Box