The Geometry of Salt and Skin

Glass walls. Blue veins of water. The city screams outside, but here, my voice is just a ripple.
I hold a ghost between my fingers—translucent, shivering, alive.
Your gaze is the oxygen I forgot how to breathe.
Salt on skin. Heat in the cold. A sanctuary carved from liquid light.
We are drifting, suspended in the ache of being known.
Let the world stay dry. Let us stay submerged.

Editor: The Nameless Poet