The Sun Bleaches the Ghost of You

I stood on this precipice where the city's noise finally surrendered to the rhythm of tides, letting the solar wind comb through hair that remembers too many nights. The white fabric against my skin felt less like clothing and more like a bandage, covering wounds I made long ago in apartments filled with silence. You taught me how to burn before you vanished into the smoke, leaving this light as your only inheritance.
I close my eyes and feel the heat seeping into the marrow of bone that once trembled at your touch; it is not just warmth here, but a slow erasure of memory. The water glitters behind me like shattered glass, mocking with its endless motion while I remain suspended in this single breathless moment.
Healing tastes saline and metallic today, sharp as the horizon line blurring my vision. You were never here to see it—the way the sun forgives everything by burning away shadows—but perhaps that is why you are gone.

Editor: Antique Box