Saltwater Lullabies and Static Skin

The air here tastes of brine and old secrets, a heavy humidity that clings to my skin like a second layer of silk. I can still feel the spray from the waves—a cold baptism against the heat of the afternoon sun. People think the ocean heals, but it really just washes away the city's grime so you can see your own fractures more clearly.

My hair is a tangled web of salt and wind, drifting behind me like smoke from a cigarette extinguished in the rain. I walk along these jagged stones because they don't ask for anything; they just let me lean into their rough indifference. But then there’s you—a ghost in my periphery, a memory of hands that felt like warm velvet against my shivering shoulders.

In the neon-lit bar back in the city, we traded glances over condensation-slicked glasses, our breaths mingling in the steam of espresso. Here, by the tide, I am trying to find that same warmth. I press my palm against the wet rock, closing my eyes to conjure the way your thumb traced the curve of my jawline. It was a quiet healing, a soft rebellion against the noise of everything else.

The water laps at my ankles, rhythmic and patient. I am not looking for an escape anymore; I am looking for you in every ripple, in every drop of moisture that beads on my skin. Let the tide pull me under if it must—as long as I can carry the ghost of your touch with me into the deep.

Editor: Midnight Neon