Within my fallen body,
Roots will thrive.

And in them, I am alive.

As old as my arms reach,
They will bare the fruit of all that has come before me.

I shall feed to the next generation of disciples,
The sugars that are born from this forgotten language.

And there we will all rise,
as we flow back down the river line.

There are mornings I wake up
with the whole sea humming inside my chest
not drowning, not swimming — just
carrying it, like a secret too vast to confess.
The salt sits heavy behind my eyes.
I blink, and it rains.

There are nights I lie still and
feel nothing but wind in my bones.
Not silence, not peace ,
just absence stretched so thin, it whistles.
Like a conch left hollow by time,
still echoing a sound it barely remembers.

I am a shore that forgets its own shape.
The tide smooths me down, pulls away,
returns again with a different name.
It gives and takes and gives and takes
until I no longer know
if I am full or empty, or if those are just
two ways of describing the same ache.

I smile like a person who knows
they are not what they used to be —
and maybe never were.
Some days, I am the entire horizon,
wide and unreachable.
Others, I am a single grain of sand
stuck beneath someone else’s heel.

Even in stillness, something is shifting.
Even in silence, I am screaming inside.
And no one hears it but the waves,
who’ve heard it all before
and choose to return anyway.

I am learning that being full
does not always mean being whole.
That emptiness can feel like
a kind of sacred space —
not lack, but preparation.
Not brokenness, but room
for something yet unnamed.

So let the ocean come.
Let it swallow me or spare me.
Let it kiss my ankles and leave.
Let me hold both the flood and the drought
as if they are mine to cradle.

Because they are.

Because I am not just the shore.
I am the tide too.

my emotions lurch
like a boat in a storm;
violent and unrelenting.
the time has come
to abandon ship
and sink to the inky depths
*calm at last

I yearn for something long gone in the depths of the future;
Not able to place a finger on its familiarity.

Discovering what is already known
Can be a clarifying process of redundancy.

When a step forward feels like a tumble backward
Toward the inevitable direction of it all.

When a puzzle forms around me
I stand there, inert.

The challenge beckons me further. It calls me closer,
Etching itself deeper into my path.

Smiling at the fantasy of completion on the other side,
A field of emotional mishaps rains down before me.

I’ve never touched him—
not in dream, not in dusk.
But still, something in me
rises at the thought.

Not lust, not sin,
just that aching sweetness
of wanting to be near
and not hidden.

At dawn,
when the air still holds its breath,
I sit where the sun first finds the floor—
and I let it touch me.
As if that were allowed.
As if I were.

There is no thunder.
No voice naming me wrong.
Only this soft, indifferent miracle—
light arriving
as though nothing about me needs changing.

I’ve prayed like this:
with hands open,
never asking for permission
to feel what I feel,
but hoping
that being honest
might still count as praise.

I’ve heard silence
louder than sermons.
I’ve learned to read approval
in the way the sky does not flinch.

If love ever comes to me,
let it come like this:
slow, golden,
not ashamed of itself.

And if it doesn’t—
if I stay a witness only,
never a name in someone else’s mouth—
then let me still be full
of light.

Let me still be someone
the morning chooses to touch.