Where the City Dissolves into Salt

The tide is a pulse—a rhythmic ache against the jagged obsidian of this shore. Salt crystallizes on my collarbone like stardust from a dying city, each grain a memory of neon lights and crowded sidewalks. I can still hear the hum of the subway beneath my eyelids, but here, the only symphony is the water’s heavy exhale.
Is this healing? Or just a different kind of drowning?
I remember your voice—a low frequency between skyscrapers, muffled by rain, yet it resonates now in every curve of the wave. You were the anchor when the pavement felt too hard; I am the reflection you left behind in a puddle of moonlight.
The red thread of my suit is a line drawn against the void, a single stroke of color in an ocean of grey-blue shadows. It holds me to the earth while the sea tries to pull me back into its deep, silent dreams.
I turn. Not because I want to flee, but because I need to see if you are still watching from the edge of my consciousness. Your touch—even if it exists only in the fracture between heartbeats—is a phantom warmth on my shoulder, steadying the tremor in my breath.
We are shards of glass, scattered and sharp, yet when we align just right, we make something luminous. A moment caught in amber. A secret shared with the moon. I am not lost; I am simply being rearranged by the tide.

Editor: Kaleidoscope