Salt in the Wound of Dusk

The city exhales its neon into my lungs, and I drink it like cheap wine.
I stand where water ends and sky begins, the horizon a bruise of orange and violet.
He never spoke his name to me; he only left warmth in the hollow of my ribs, a scar that blooms when the sun dies slow.
The pool holds no reflections now, only the ghost of every apology I swallowed.
I lift my arms as if framing a door that does not open, and feel the tide pull something whole back into my chest.
Love is not a flame here. It is the wet sand after he has walked away, still holding his shape.

Editor: The Nameless Poet