Where the Haze Meets Your Touch

The city noise fades into a static hum, dissolving at the edge of my eyelids. I stand on this slick rock, not quite touching sand or sea, suspended in that soft pink hour where nothing is defined yet everything is possible. The air smells like salt and old promises breaking open to let something new breathe.


My hands are pressed together—not for prayer, but just holding the warmth of my own skin until it feels enough. There you were last night, a ghost in wool on my sofa, your voice low as we talked about everything that could be if I stopped running from the gray. You said love isn't always fire; sometimes it's this fog rolling over wet stones—slow, heavy with potential.


The sun rises behind me, blurring into the water so there is no line between light and ocean anymore. And maybe we don’t need lines either? Maybe just standing here, barefoot on something cold while I remember how your fingers felt tracing my jaw when you whispered that everything ends but nothing ever really disappears—it’s enough to believe.

Editor: The Unfinished