A hush between horizon and flame,
where silence stitches salt into skin.
A curve of breath the moon forgot,
where no footsteps ask for return.
Eyes not mine have blinked at her swell—
some called her sand, some sea,
but I knew her before she was named.
Before I was.
There are waves that never touched land,
just held my spine in soft defiance.
There’s a scent that rises
like memory before thought—
sun on green, salt in bloom,
and a hush that knew my name
when I did not.
She is not place,
but pulse.
Not shore,
but thread.
And when days tighten like fists,
I slip—
not away,
but within.
Where nothing asks.
Where all forgives.
Where I begin.
Again.
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