five footprints left to the sea

here—

the dock groans beneath us, wood swollen with yesterday’s storm,

toes curled over its splintered edge, eyes open, unblinking,

lips salted with unshed tears.
i feel the hollow where the tide used to be,
where waves once cradled my spine,
and i—

dig,
dig,
dig,

until the sand spits me out, hands raw,
nothing left to hold.

gasp when i stumble
into the april rain,
pull the clouds apart
to let the gray bleed through.
i turn away
as my fingers curl into fists,
as my breath fogs the air
between us.
press your cheek to the window,
feel the chill seep into your skin.
ignore the sharp edges
of your reflection,
the way it fractures
when you move too quickly.

say it.
you’ve changed.
do you really mean it?

...

watch how the ocean exhales,
light flickering,
water on metal on sand on
the weight of something unsaid.
it smells like rain, like rust,
it smells like—

one.

the first time i felt the tide pull,
it was gentle, coaxing,
an invitation whispered between waves.
dip my toes in, sand clinging into my shoes

and when she says stay, you say what,
but the tide is already shifting,
and white foam curls around your ankles
and she says stay, and you say no,
you say i can’t,
but your feet keep moving, skimming over
the glassy pull of the waves,
chasing nothing, chasing absence,
chasing the way the ocean swallows footprints whole.

two.

the second time, it was stronger,

wrapped itself around my calves, my knees,
climbing higher, climbing closer.
i laughed, but it swallowed the sound whole.

she says, and you say
how can you just not stop,
you’re slipping,
and she presses her palms to the wet sand,
and you dig your fingers in,
but the earth softens,
but the current tugs,
and neither of you are strong enough
to hold it back,
so you both—

three.

the third time, i did not fight it,
did not run, as
cold water soaked past my chest
chilling my body, past the heart

sink,

into the undertow you made,
and she gasps for the breath
that saltwater stole,
and you gasp for the moment
that almost felt like staying,
and she is me,
and you are me,
and i am never—

four.

the fourth time, i almost let go.

still.

we are echoes first,
sound before silence,
we are sketches, unfinished,
paint wet, colors blurring
i feel the space between heartbeats,
the thinning, the stretching,
the snap.

and the rhythms that shatter,
the silence that stays:

five.