The Shoreline of Whispers

The salt air tastes like a memory I haven't quite finished writing. Here, where the orange tide bleeds into the grey horizon, the world loses its sharp corners. In the city, everything is defined—the weight of my keys, the steam from an espresso cup, the frantic pulse of a subway line. But here, against the backdrop of a dissolving sun, I am allowed to be unformed.
My skin drinks in the warmth like a parched garden, and for a moment, the ache of his absence feels less like a void and more like a soft hum in my bones. I can almost see him in the spray—a silhouette walking through neon-lit rain or leaning against a brick wall, eyes tracing the same constellations I’m watching now from across the miles.
Is this healing? Or is it just another way of drifting? Every wave that washes over my feet is a question posed by the ocean, and my answer is always the same: I am still here, suspended in this golden haze between who I was with him and who I am becoming alone. The light is fading, but in this blur of white sand and salt, I find the courage to simply be unfinished.

Editor: The Unfinished