Salt on the Skin, Silk in the Soul

The city is a fever dream of neon and concrete, but here, the air tastes of salt and forgetting.
I am a sculpture of sand and light, melting into the horizon where the blue meets the bone-white foam.
Your gaze is a steady anchor in my drifting tides—a quiet gravity that pulls my scattered thoughts into one singular point of warmth.
My skin remembers your touch like a secret whispered by the waves; it is not just heat, but a slow mending of frayed edges.
We are two ghosts dancing on the lip of the infinite, weaving our breath into the fabric of a summer that refuses to end.

Editor: The Nameless Poet