Saltwater Amnesia

The sun is a heavy gold coin pressing against my eyelids, and the air tastes of salt and expensive gin. My skin still hums with the ghost of yesterday’s heat—that lingering, sticky warmth that feels like a secret shared between me and the tide.

I remember his hands on my waist as we waded into the shallows, the water cool enough to shock my breath away but warm enough to feel like a homecoming. We didn't speak much; words are too sharp for this kind of light. We just drifted, two bodies suspended in amber, watching the palms sway like slow-motion dancers against a bruised sky.

Now, standing here alone, the water washes over my ankles and carries away the residue of his touch. It’s a quiet healing—the kind that doesn't come from medicine but from being seen under a different sun. The city is waiting for me back on land, with its sharp edges and neon demands, but for now, I am just a silhouette in the spray. My heart beats with a dull, beautiful ache, a hangover of intimacy that I never want to fully sober up from.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn