Where the Horizon Meets My Breath

The sun is a golden weight upon my skin, pressing into every pore like an old memory trying to resurface. I stand where the sea meets the shore—a boundary between what was and what could be. In the city, time is a knife cutting through the day; here, it is merely the tide, pulling and releasing in a rhythmic dance of surrender.
I can still feel his touch on my wrist from that rainy cafe in Tokyo, but here, under the vast dome of azure, his ghost dissolves into salt. My eyes are closed because seeing would mean returning to reality. For now, I am only a body of heat and water, healing from the silence of an unsaid 'stay.' The cicadas will scream tomorrow, their voices sharp with the bitterness of youth, but today, there is only the pulse of the ocean and the bittersweet sweetness of being still.

Editor: Summer Cicada