Salt on the Lip of a Concrete Tide

Concrete ribs ache under the city's weight. I am a ghost of silk and salt.
The water does not speak, yet it whispers your name in ripples—each curve a syllable of healing. My skin drinks the sun’s dying breath until I glow like an ember caught in glass.

We do not touch; we collide in thoughts between subway stations and steam-filled cafes. A glance over espresso foam is enough to drown me. The air tastes of ozone and your cologne—a sharp, sweet ache that lingers on my tongue.

I wear the night like a second skin, transparent as hope. Here, by the koi’s golden dance, I am not lost. I am found in the space between heartbeats, where love is just heat meeting cold water.

Editor: The Nameless Poet