The Weight of a Silent Shore

I cannot tell you how long I have lived as an island, drifting through the neon currents of this city with my heart locked behind layers of black lace and colder silence.
Tonight, however, your touch is a language I’ve forgotten. As we sit on this damp sand under a moon that looks like it's weeping light into the tide, I feel the heavy architecture of my own defenses beginning to crumble. My skin hums against the cool night air, but where you cannot see me—where our fingers barely brush—there is an explosion occurring.
It’s not loud; it doesn’t scream. It's a silent rupture in the deep sea of my soul, releasing years of held breath and swallowed tears into this single moment between us. You didn't ask why I was distant or what scars lay beneath these sheer fabrics. You simply sat beside me and let the ocean roar for both of us.
I lean back on my heels, feeling your gaze like a warm current that refuses to turn away. In the crushing weight of this silence, I realize that being known is far more dangerous than being loved—and yet, as I look into your eyes, I find myself wanting and waiting to be undone.

Editor: Deep Sea