In the quiet of an afternoon sea-change
we stand at the doorway, neither of us making the decision to leave or enter.
We’ve been at this for years now,
the ebb and the flow of tidal embrace.
Silence moves between us,
moves at the pace of feeling.
For so long we carried the bones of resentment,
for so long the shards of unspoken dreams.
How did having nothing left, bring us to this place?
To be empty, is not emptiness.
And so we move, we move at the pace of feeling,
towards the feeling, of feeling felt.
Martin © 2026
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 11:46 AM UTC
In the quiet of an afternoon sea-change
we stand at the doorway, neither of us making the decision to leave or enter.
We’ve been at this for years now,
the ebb and the flow of tidal embrace.
Silence moves between us,
moves at the pace of feeling.
For so long we carried the bones of resentment,
for so long the shards of unspoken dreams.
How did having nothing left, bring us to this place?
To be empty, is not emptiness.
And so we move, we move at the pace of feeling,
towards the feeling, of feeling felt.
Martin © 2026
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