The Weight of Sunlight on Salted Skin

The gallery is a vacuum of white noise, yet here I stand before the canvas—a violent collision of cerulean and ochre that mirrors the wreckage inside my chest. My skin feels too large for my bones today, heavy with the humidity of unsaid things.
I am wearing this bikini like armor made of thread; it is a deliberate vulnerability exposed to the sterile air. Every step I take across these polished floors echoes in the hollow space behind my ribs where your name still vibrates. The light filters through the skylight, cutting the room into jagged shards of gold and gray.
Then you appear at the edge of my periphery—not as an intruder, but as a tide returning to shore. You don't speak; words are too clumsy for what we have built in silence. Your gaze settles on me, heavy with a warmth that feels like drowning in shallow water. It is crushing, this way of looking at me—as if you can see the bruises beneath my composure.
I want to collapse into your shadow and let the art dissolve around us. I want to feel your hands trace the line where my body meets yours until we are just two colors bleeding into one another on a canvas that never dries.

Editor: Deep Sea