The Weight of Golden Silence

The sand is a coarse kiss against my skin, a gritty reminder that I am still anchored to this earth even as my mind drifts toward the neon-lit abyss of the city.
I close my eyes and let the sun press its heavy palm over my face, trying to bake away the residue of a week spent in glass towers and hollow smiles. The blue fabric above me hums with the rhythm of waves—a heartbeat for someone who forgot how to breathe on their own.
But then I remember your hand on the small of my back in that crowded subway station last Tuesday. A fleeting touch, yet it felt like a seismic shift in my chest. Now, here in this golden isolation, I realize the warmth isn't just from the air; it's the phantom pressure of your absence. It’s the way the light catches the curve of my hip and reminds me of how you looked at me when we thought no one was watching.
I am trying to heal in silence, but every grain of sand is a word I never said to you. The sun is beautiful, yet it feels like an ache—a radiant crushing weight that tells me home isn't a place, but the specific frequency of your breath against my neck.

Editor: Deep Sea