The Milky Way is a Bruise on My Skin

The salt air clings to my skin like a second memory, heavy and humid as the tide pulls at my ankles.
Above us, the galaxy isn't just light—it’s a spill of ink and stardust across a velvet canvas, bleeding into the horizon until the sea and sky become one seamless ache. I can still feel the phantom heat of your palm against my spine from an hour ago, a lingering warmth that refuses to dissipate in this cool brine.
People talk about healing as if it’s a destination, but tonight, it feels like this: standing in the center of a cosmic exhale. My hair whipped by the wind is a chaotic map of where I’ve been and where I’m drifting.
I look up, not at the stars, but through them, searching for that specific frequency of your voice in the hum of the waves. In this city of neon glare and concrete noise, we found a pocket of silence so deep it tastes like ozone. You aren't here now, but I am wearing your absence like a silk shroud—soft, intimate, and entirely mine.

Editor: Midnight Neon