The Weight of Salt & Silk

The sea keeps breathing, even after the night has ended. It's a rhythm he doesn’t share; his hand trailing down my spine is still warm from dancing, or something like it.
He said I looked haunted by beautiful things when I woke up—a line stolen from some old poem, no doubt. But he traces the curve of my jaw with such reverence, like he's memorizing every shadow, that I almost believe him.
This dress...it’s ridiculous for dawn, isn’t it? All silk and beads against cold stone. A relic of a life I barely remember living, a costume for someone else’s dreams. But he likes the way it feels when he touches me in these clothes.
He's already gone inside, to make coffee—black, like his soul. And honestly? That’s enough. The quiet weight of him returning is all the sunrise I need.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn