The Sea and Me

That night, the air smelled like the open sea,

salty and impatient, a lonely beckoning for

any touch that felt like a hand or a quick brush of the cheek.

The water quietly rocked on its knees,

imprinting carpet burns of cold bedrock onto its skin.

Sometimes, she was too soft,

like water in hand, sand in hand,

slipping through fingers so readily.

She wondered if it was just a part of her making,

or choice, or both.

But she was good at hiding this, the fidgeting

as the waves licked the cliff-sides and

longingly drifted towards the shore.

On nights like these, when she was the scenery,

she felt afraid.

She didn’t know how to be more than a sitting body,

painting her fear as volatile storms and

fleeing from the firmness of sand.

In some ways, steadiness scared her,

for she was unpredictable and didn’t

know what she deserved and what she was capable of.