Wet

A mournful, melancholic kind of wet, born not from touch, but from absence. A word soaked in longing, where tears trace the path desire used to travel. It's the ache of memory pooling in the body, the soft drowning that happens when your heart wants what your hands can't hold. Wet is the soul lying alone in the dark, clinging to a ghost, whispering love into the silence. Wet becomes the quiet poetry of longing and loss, where the tear ducts work harder than the hips ever dreamed.