The Salt on a Ghost’s Skin

The water does not remember my name, yet it holds me in a cold embrace that mimics the warmth of your touch.
I stand at the edge where blue meets white—a boundary between what I am and what I wish to become. The sun is an unblinking eye, bleaching the memory of our shared mornings into pale gold dust. My skin carries the salt of previous tears, now drying under a sky too vast for my small heart.
I wear this sheer robe like a veil over my secrets; it flutters with every breath I take to keep from collapsing into your shadow. You are not here, yet you occupy the space between ripples. The urban hum fades behind me, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of water against stone—a steady heartbeat for an aching soul.
Healing is a slow tide. It does not arrive in waves; it seeps into my pores like humidity after rain. I am learning to love the heat that burns and the coolness that soothes simultaneously. In this moment, under the blinding glare of noon, I realize: unrequited youth is simply an art form where we paint our longing onto a canvas of light until everything fades into white.

Editor: Summer Cicada