Saltwater Vespers

The city is a skeleton of glass and iron, humming with the static of forgotten dreams. I am here, where the horizon bleeds into the blue.
Sand grains are memories—sharp, white, and cooling against skin that still burns from the noon light. My breath tastes of salt and silence.
You were a whisper in a crowded subway, a shadow against a neon wall. Now, you are the tide pulling at my ankles.
Warmth is not just the sun; it is the way your name settles under my ribs like silt in a still pond. Healing comes in waves—each one washing away the gray dust of the week.
I sit between two chairs, suspended in time. The water rises to meet my knees, and for a moment, I am not a girl from the city. I am a ripple. I am the ache of an unspoken arrival.

Editor: The Nameless Poet