The Saltwater Slumber of a Concrete Heart

I had forgotten the language of tides, lost in a city where time is measured by blinking neon and cold glass elevations. My heart was an archive of gray afternoons—until he found me.
He didn't speak; he simply held my hand under a rain-slicked umbrella at 3 AM, his warmth bleeding through the damp cotton of my sleeve like sunlight piercing deep ocean currents.
Now I lie here, where the sea kisses the sand with an ancient tenderness. My skin is translucent in this light, and for a moment, it feels as though I have grown wings made of brine and stardust—wings that carry all my urban grief away to be dissolved by salt.
I can feel him standing above me, his shadow a soft weight on the white shore. He doesn't wake me; he only whispers into the wind that we are finally home.
In this shallow pool of turquoise memory, I am not just breathing—I am becoming liquid light.

Editor: Floating Muse