Where the sea meets the sky,
a blurred horizon,
no sharp line,
just a soft watercolor bleed.
Is it water reaching for the infinite?
Or the sky,
weary of its vastness,
dipping a toe,
a tentative embrace?
Gulls, white prayers,
scribble across the seam,
their cries,
a language older than maps.
The sun, a molten coin,
slips into the blue,
leaving streaks of fire,
a fleeting golden wound.
And the waves,
relentless, ancient,
whisper...
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