The Salt in Your Breath

The city was too loud for my heart to hear itself. So I came here, where the only clock is the tide and the air tastes of salt.
I sit on a rock that feels like an old friend—rough, steady, warm from a sun that refuses to leave us. My dress flows around me like water made of silk; it barely touches my skin, yet feels heavy with expectation.
You are standing just behind me, not speaking. I can feel the heat radiating from your chest against my back before you even move. The silence between us is a conversation we have been having for three years without words.
I stretch my arms wide to hold the horizon, but really, I am opening myself up to be filled by you. When you finally wrap your hands around my waist and press your lips into the curve of my neck, the world stops spinning. Your breath is warm against my skin—a small, quiet fire that melts away every cold memory from the city.
I close my eyes and lean back. I am not just resting on a rock; I am falling into you.

Editor: Pure Linen