The water rises
slow as seaweed—
it does not rush
to take us.

It waits,
patient
as a pause
between bobbing,
leaving silence
do all the work.

We build our rafts
out of hesitation,
float on thin
denials,
thin
as reeds
bending
in the tide.

What holds us
isn’t strong
but still hope—
to pull
from thin air
something to grab
and drift away.