The Sea Against My Skin

The sun arrived first, uninvited, laying gold across the white linen. I wore the sea in blue against my skin—two ribbons tied at the waist like promises I almost kept.
The city hummed below, a thousand windows blinking their cold eyes, but here the air was warm and slow. He had left his coat on the chair; it still held his shape, a hollow of warmth. I closed my fingers around nothing and felt him anyway.
Healing is not a bandage. It is light pooling in the curve of your collarbone while you pretend to be asleep.

Editor: The Nameless Poet