The Tide That Blooms in Your Shadow

The salt air clings to my skin like a morning mist, cooling the heat of a city that never stops humming. I am standing on this concrete spine, a lonely pier reaching out into the sapphire infinite.
In my mind, your voice is a steady rain—the kind that doesn't flood, but seeps deep into the parched soil of my heart until every dry leaf begins to turn green again. We haven't spoken in weeks, yet our silence is a garden we both tend to in secret.
I look toward the horizon, feeling the wind weave through my hair like invisible fingers tracing patterns on silk. Every wave that breaks against the rocks is a pulse, a rhythm reminding me of how you once held my hand—firm as an oak root, yet gentle as a bud opening to the sun.
The warmth of your memory is a greenhouse in my chest; it keeps me blooming even when the winter of reality tries to frost my spirit. I close my eyes and let the ocean breathe for me. I am not lost at sea; I am simply waiting for the tide of you to come home.

Editor: Green Meadow