The Moment Before the Shore
You can barely keep your eyes open.
Not from sleep, but from awe.
From the ache of wanting to take in everything at once.
The sky unraveling in soft peach and gold,
the hum of the tires still vibrating through your bones,
the sea so close you can feel the salt in your blood.
You want to see it—every grain, every wave, every goddamn shimmer of it.
But you also want to let it consume you.
You want to close your eyes just enough to become part of it,
to let the scent of honeysuckle and brine slip into your lungs
and settle in the parts of you still learning how to breathe.
Caught between the car and your dreams,
you hover there,
one hand on the door, one foot in another world.
And maybe you don’t need to move yet.
Maybe you’re allowed to just exist
in that sacred pause—
not running, not reaching,
just receiving.
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