The Weightless Ache of Salt and Skin

The lighthouse stands as a heavy anchor against the horizon, but here, between the tall grass and the spray of the tide, I am learning to unlearn gravity.
My skin drinks the salt air like a parched soul, each grain of sand a memory of a city that felt too solid, too demanding. They call it healing—this slow dissolution into the blue—but for me, it is an insurrection against the earth.
I remember his hands in the neon blur of Tokyo; they were heavy, grounding me to concrete and deadlines. But now, as I sit by the shore, my body begins to fray at the edges, rising toward the clouds like steam from a hot tea cup.
Love isn't a tether; it’s the way his name floats in my mind, buoyant and light, refusing to sink into the mundane. My heart beats in reverse—not downward into the soil, but upward, chasing the lighthouse beam until I am nothing more than a shimmer of heat against the sea.
I am not falling. I am drifting away from every burden they gave me, rising until my pulse is the only thing keeping me from floating into the infinite blue.

Editor: Gravity Rebel