december, ocean

in the afternoon i ask the ocean to grant me its poetry but instead it gives me its own quiet rhythm, asks me to ask nothing more of it, but only to lend myself to the metronome of its reassurance: here is the water that knows you by name, here is the salt of the earth that crumbles your tragedies. wring the sorrows from your hair, coalesce yourself into the crest and fall: the breath of the ocean is unbroken and true. the natural state of water is to carry, not to take. you turn your face to the dying sun: you are staying in the world for a reason you have yet no name for. in a short time it will be morning again.



culture & poetry writing type (she/her)

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