It's too early to forget you, it will always be too soon. The second transit overflows with you so thoroughly that only emptiness remains possible. My home is built upon you, the walls, the windows, the hues. The days and nights that dwell beside me exist for your memory. There is no present without your hands, only monotonous rhythms that lull melancholy to sleep. It is too early to forget you, it will always be too soon, your absence unmakes and remakes me, without you until the sea's roar becomes foreign and a vast emptiness collapses over me drowned in the waves.
# Waves Water remembers what the shore forgets— how to hold, how to let go, the exact moment when one becomes the other. Each wave a messenger carrying salt-bright news from the deep places, breaking itself open on the sand like a confession. The shore says nothing. It has heard it all before: the same rhythm, the same roar, the same patient erasure of footprints, promises, names. Yet the waves return. Not stubborn, not desperate— just faithful to their nature, the way a heart returns to its own beating. And in that return is everything: the whole conversation between wanting and letting be, between the wild and the tame, the restless and the still. Water remembers. The shore knows. We stand between them, learning slowly what they have always known— that some things must break to become whole, that some things must leave to come home.
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