Salt on the Tongue

The air near the water always tastes of cold iron and wet stone. It is a sharp, metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat, reminding the lungs of the vast, restless deep. I remember standing on a deck once, the wood vibrating beneath my bare feet, the salt spray leaving a tacky, crystalline film on my skin that felt like a second, tighter layer. There is a specific ache in the chest when the day begins to bruise into evening—a heavy, golden pressure that pushes against the ribs, demanding that you breathe in the fading heat. We are always chasing the horizon, trying to swallow the light before it slips away into the dark, liquid belly of the world. It is a hunger that never quite leaves the marrow. Does the water remember the sun long after the surface has gone cold, or does it simply wait for the next morning to be warmed again?