The Salt in My Skin and Your Shadow on the Wood

The wood beneath me is splintered and thirsty, drinking up the heat of a day that tasted like exhaust fumes and burnt coffee. I sit here on this pier—a bridge between where we were and whatever hell lies ahead—letting my hair spill over my shoulders like golden silk caught in a gale.

My lungs are full of salt air, but it’s your memory clogging them up. You didn't say much today; you just walked beside me, your shadow overlapping mine until we became one messy silhouette against the fading light. Every time our hands brushed near that railing, I felt a spark—not like electricity, but like the first thaw of spring hitting frozen ground.

I look at my boots and see where I’ve been; they're dusty from chasing dreams that sometimes feel more like ghosts. But then you smile at me over your shoulder, and suddenly the rough texture of this bridge feels soft. It’s a raw kind of love—not polished for Instagram or curated by some city architect. It’s just us: two tired souls leaning into each other's gravity in a world that never stops spinning.

I pull my knees closer, feeling the warmth seep through my jeans. I don't need grand gestures; I just need this moment of stillness before the tide pulls everything away again.

Editor: Street-side Poet