The Scent of Saltwater and Old Letters

I often wonder if the ocean remembers us, or if it only keeps secrets in its depths. Standing here on this cliffside edge where the wind tastes of brine and distant memories, I feel as though I am waiting for a person who has already arrived within me.
You used to say that my eyes held the color of dawn over an unfamiliar city—a mix of anticipation and quiet loneliness. For years in Tokyo's concrete embrace, we were two ghosts drifting through subway stations and neon-lit rain, our love spoken in hushed tones between coffee sips at 3 AM. We built a world out of whispers and shared playlists, yet the urban noise always threatened to drown us.
Now, wearing this lace that feels like an old poem against my skin, I let the breeze trace lines upon my collarbone—a touch so light it might be yours from another lifetime. There is something profoundly healing about returning here; the air doesn't demand anything of me but presence.
I can still hear your voice in the crash of waves: 'Wait for me where the blue begins.' So I wait, draped in sunlight and longing, knowing that even if you never return from across those waters, this moment—this soft, salt-kissed pause—is enough to sustain my soul through another winter.

Editor: South Wind