Salt on the Lip, Sunlight in the Veins

The sun is a dying ember, sinking into the Pacific like a secret kept too long. I stand where the tide forgets to leave, feeling the salt crust on my skin—a white lace of memory.
The air tastes of brine and the bitter heat of August. My hair, whipped by the wind, feels like silk threads trying to escape my grasp, much like your voice does in my dreams. You are not here, yet you are everywhere: in the way the light catches the ripples, in the rhythmic pulse of waves against the sand.
I wear this sheer white dress as a veil between who I was and who I am becoming. It clings to my body, damp with spray, mirroring how your absence clings to my heart. Each breath is a lesson in impermanence; we are but cicadas singing into a summer that will never stay.
I close my eyes and let the water wash over my feet. Healing isn't found in holding on; it’s in the surrender of the current. I am learning to love the distance, to find beauty in the ache of what is lost. Tonight, under this bruised orange sky, I will let the tide take my longing back into the deep.

Editor: Summer Cicada