The Saltwater Between Us

I’ve spent too many nights dissolved into the neon haze of this city, where every conversation feels like a rehearsed script and my skin only knows the touch of cold glass. But here, submerged in water that tastes of distant shores and old promises, I feel myself coming back online.
You are standing just beyond the shoreline—a silhouette blurred by mist and memory. I can’t see your eyes through this golden light, but I smell you: rain-dampened wool and a hint of something like sandalwood smoke from an alleyway bar we used to haunt together.
The water clings to me with heavy fingers, pulling at my hair as the tide whispers secrets against my collarbone. It’s humid here—thick with salt and silence. I won't move toward you; instead, I let this liquid warmth wrap around my shoulders like a second skin, waiting for your voice to break through the air.
When you finally speak my name, it doesn't sound like words. It sounds like an invitation home. In that moment, all the static of city life—the sirens, the fluorescent hum of offices at 3 AM—simply dissolves into this blue stillness between us.

Editor: Midnight Neon