Salt on My Skin, Your Ghost in My Head

The sun is too bright today, a sharp contrast to the blurred edges of last night. I can still taste the salt on my lips—half from the ocean spray, half from the gin we shared until the stars started to fade. My skin feels warm, humming with the residual heat of a summer that refuses to end.

I lean against these jagged rocks, watching the tide pull at the shore like it’s trying to drag my memories back into the deep. They told me healing was a linear path, but here it feels more like a tide: coming in, going out, leaving behind nothing but damp sand and lingering echoes.

I remember how your hand felt against mine—steady, real, a grounding weight in a world that kept spinning too fast. We didn't say much. We didn't have to. In the quiet spaces between your breaths, I found a sanctuary I hadn't known was missing.

Now, as the water laps at my toes, I realize it wasn’t just about the escape. It was about the way you looked at me when the city lights were out—as if I were the only thing worth seeing in this vast, blue expanse. My heart is heavy, but for the first time in months, it doesn't ache. It just... breathes.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn