The salt on my lips this morning

Woke up at 5:30, walked to the dock without shoes. The air was thick with sea and silence—just the creak of mooring lines and a single gull calling like it was testing the sky. I stood there for ten minutes, letting the salt dry on my lips, thinking about how that taste never really leaves you, even after twenty years ashore. It’s not just memory; it’s a kind of skin. I didn’t do anything. Just stood. Let the world wake up around me. That’s the closest thing to prayer I’ve got now.