Salt on the Lip, Sun in the Bone

The horizon is a bleeding seam, where the orange of the dying day meets the gray of an indifferent sea. I stand here, my skin drinking in the last warmth like a parched root seeking water in cracked earth.
The salt clings to my lips—a bitter, crystalline memory of your name. Every wave that breaks against the shore is a heartbeat I cannot claim; each grain of sand under my feet is a moment we shared but never truly touched.
You are in the city now, moving through glass and steel, while I remain anchored here, caught in the amber glow of this fading hour. My hair carries the scent of brine and longing. Is it healing to watch the sun sink? Or is it merely the slow evaporation of hope?
I press a finger to my mouth, tasting the sea and the silence between us. The heat still radiates from my chest, a phantom pulse of what was. In this golden hour, I am not waiting for you to return. I am learning how to let the tide wash away your ghost, one breath at a time.

Editor: Summer Cicada