The Tide’s Softest Secret

The lighthouse stands as a sentinel of bone and light against the blurring horizon, its steady pulse a rhythm I have learned to breathe with. My dress—woven from the color of mossy dreams and sea-mist—clings to me like a soft confession. Here, where the salt air dissolves the sharp edges of the city’s roar, I find my own center.


You are not standing beside me, yet your warmth persists in the way my skin remembers your touch. It is a phantom sensation, a lingering ghost-heat that blossoms whenever the waves lace against the shore. Each ripple carries away a piece of yesterday’s ache, leaving only the shimmering clarity of now. I close my eyes and let the sea-breeze weave through my hair, tasting of brine and longing.


Healing is not a sudden sunrise; it is this slow, tidal unfolding—the way the light catches on my smile even as it trembles. In this quiet space between land and ocean, I am no longer running. I am simply becoming part of the horizon, a soft green silhouette caught in the amber glow of memory, waiting for the moment when your heartbeat and mine finally sync with the tide.

Editor: Floating Muse