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Either I've Seen You Or I Want To, How Could I Be Mad At That?
The horizon is a blade—
it glints whether I run toward it
or watch it withdraw.
Each dawn splits me open,
spilling a slow trickle of salt,
as if the sea is feeding me to itself,
one grain at a time.
I know the undertow’s handwriting—
it pulls not to drown,
but to measure how far my lungs will stretch.
Even in absence,
the shore presses its ghost lips
to the soles of my feet,
branding me with wet fire.
The days arrive like heavy-winged birds,
falling or flying—it makes no difference.
Either I am lifted
or I am stitched to the air by wanting.
Both keep me in motion.
So tell me—
how could I curse the water
when even the ebb feels like an arrival,
and every hunger it leaves behind
is proof my compass still works?
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shay's archive
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