Saltwater Sighs Under a Pale Moon

The city is still humming behind me—a distant, neon heartbeat that never quite sleeps. But here, where the tide licks at my ankles with a cold persistence, everything feels blurred and soft, like an old jazz record spinning in a rain-drenched alleyway.
I let the seawater slip through my fingers; it’s clear as gin and carries the scent of distant storms. For months, I lived on espresso shots and blue light screens, breathing air that tasted of ozone and loneliness. Then you appeared—not with grand gestures, but like a slow-burn melody in a dim bar at 2 AM.
You told me once that healing isn't a destination, it’s just learning how to breathe again when the world feels too heavy. Now I can feel your gaze on my shoulder, warm and steady against this damp ocean breeze. There is an unspoken tension between us—a magnetic pull that smells of sea salt and skin.
I look back at you, not with words but through a glance half-hidden by wet hair. In the quiet ripple of these waters, I realize that being known is more intimate than any touch. We are just two ghosts in floral fabric and linen shirts, drifting together into a summer night where time dissolves like sugar on my tongue.

Editor: Midnight Neon