Where Your Breath Meets My Saltwater Skin

I have spent three years in an office where the light is always fluorescent and my dreams are measured by quarterly KPIs. I forgot how to be a person; I only knew how to be productive.
Then came you—a quiet disruption in my structured life, smelling of old books and rain-drenched pavement. You didn't ask me to change; you simply invited me to disappear with you for a weekend where the clock hands stopped moving.
Now, standing here at the edge of this vast blue indifference, I feel my edges softening. The hem of my peach dress is damp from the tide, clinging slightly to my thighs like an unspoken promise. My skin carries the warmth of a sun that doesn't care about deadlines or board meetings.
I can hear you behind me, your footsteps sinking into the wet sand—a rhythmic pulse that anchors me even as I feel myself dissolving into the horizon. When you finally touch the small of my back, it isn’t just skin on fabric; it is a bridge being built between two lonely cities.
The air tastes of salt and something deeper—an invitation to stay in this blurred moment forever, where we are neither who we were nor yet who we will become. I close my eyes and let the wind pull at me, knowing that as long as your hand remains there, I am not drifting away; I am finally arriving.

Editor: The Unfinished