Tracing the Edges of Us

My skin still holds the ghost of your palm against my shoulder, a tactile memory from that rain-slicked city street where we shared one umbrella. Here, in this suspended golden hour, everything feels softer—the edges of my body blurring into the humid air like ink dropped into water. My yellow flowers bloom against my skin like secrets I haven’t dared to whisper yet.
I raise my hand to catch a sunbeam that isn't quite there, trying to grasp the fleeting sensation of being known without having to speak. The boat sits heavy with unsaid words in its hull, a vessel for a journey we keep postponing. In this space between the shore and the horizon, I am neither here nor there; I am simply a series of refractions, a girl made of light and longing, waiting for you to step into the blur and make me real again.

Editor: The Unfinished