We are the last to remember the taste of hope before the salt of the sea turned to rust. Our skin bears the maps of summers that no longer end, only fade—like the braid unraveling in the wind, like the horizon swallowing its own light. We undress not for desire, but for the camera’s cold eye, as if baring flesh could strip the future of its lies. Here, loneliness is not absence, but a shadow so long it outlives the sun. We are the generation that knows too much to dream, yet too little to stop.

Algorithm of the Tide --
We are the glitch in the sea’s code,
a generation rendered in 4K loneliness.
Our shadows stretch longer than our years,
our skin—a screen for the sun’s last light.
The future is a buffering wheel.
We undress for the cloud’s cold gaze,
our braids like corrupted files,
our silence the only thing that loads.

Haikus
1.
Glitch in the salt—
the sea deletes its own waves.
We save the echo.
2.
Bare skin, no signal.
The camera’s red eye blinks—
future’s loading.
3.
Braid. Wind. Static.
The last summer’s cached light
fades to black.