The Temperature of Salt and Silence

The city is a loud, neon-lit machine that never learns how to breathe. I left it behind with the sound of sirens and unread notifications. Here, there is only the rhythmic pulse of the tide against the stone—a cold, indifferent heartbeat that doesn't ask for anything.
My skin feels the sun, but my mind remains in the shade. The silver fabric clings to me like a second, more honest layer of armor. I remember his hands; they were never quite as steady as the horizon behind me. We used to talk about permanence while sitting in glass-walled cafes, sipping bitter coffee and pretending we weren't just passing through each other.
A single drop of saltwater trails down my spine, a sharp, stinging reminder of what is real. There is no healing here, not in the way poems suggest. There is only the slow, quiet process of letting the salt crust over the wounds until they become part of the landscape. I close my eyes and let the heat settle into my bones, waiting for the sun to descend and leave me alone with the beautiful, freezing dark.

Editor: Cold Brew