I stand where the cold wet sand clings

I stand where the cold wet sand clings

like it's afraid the tide might forget.

Clouds hang heavy, waiting beyond grey horizons,

while a single bird calls out, sharp, lonely.

The ocean breathes slow and distant,

pulling secrets down, swallowing light,

smelling of fish and smoke —

a scent you can’t catch but know’s there,

pulling, always pulling.

Feet sinking in the sticky gray muck,

watching waves scrape soft lines

that the wind will erase before the next breath.

I never wanted to leave that place,

where the world splits—here, and beyond,

all edge and cold salt air,

still waiting, still holding back.