It rises where the hours slow,
where salt collects in lines that glow.
The ground is stitched from distant sleep,
and wind moves like a hand that keeps.
Chairs sink into the breathing sand,
each shaped for something still unmanned.
A kettle sings though none arrive,
its voice both rusted and alive.
A coat is draped across a hook,
too warm to wear, too soft to look.
The air is thick with things not said,
like rooms that wait to hold a head.
No sign, no gate, but still it grows,
a shore that bends beneath the toes.
And every time I almost reach,
it answers back with silent speech.
Someday, when pulse becomes the tide,
I’ll cross into that bluer side,
and someone there, with steady tea,
will press their quiet face to me.
Seaside
© Copyright: Староминскаяя, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125073007752
Свидетельство о публикации №125073007752
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