Saltwater Breath and a Cobalt Dream

The air here is thick, tasting of salt and old promises that never quite kept their word. I stand at the edge of the pier where the gray sky bleeds into a silver sea, wearing this striped dress like armor against an invisible chill.
He had told me once—over two glasses of lukewarm gin in a basement bar lit by neon signs flickering 'Open' and 'Closed' simultaneously—that my eyes held a kind of quiet storm. I didn’t believe him then; the city was too loud, our breaths too shallow between sips of smoke-scented air.
But now, with the wind pulling at my hair like desperate fingers, I feel his ghost beside me. Not in spirit, but in memory—the kind that lingers on skin long after a touch has faded. He is here in the way the mist clings to my collarbone and how my heart beats against the fabric of this dress, rhythmic as an incoming tide.
I lean forward slightly, fingertips grazing my chin, wondering if he can smell me from across time: jasmine mixed with wet pavement and that faint metallic tang of city rain. This is our sanctuary—a place where urban noise dissolves into a low hum and love isn't something you find, but something you remember through the haze.
I’ll wait until the light turns blue-gold, until my shadow stretches long enough to touch him again in the blur.

Editor: Midnight Neon