Remember those small ***** that wash up at shore,
in the event of a low-tide?
I am those *****, and you are the tides.
I lay buried beneath a surface of fine grains,
salvageable in your grasp. I wait, live with you,
call to you like a tenant to their home.
I descend into your hold, unknowing, or rather,
forgetting that you change.
You always do.
You are the tides, always shifting and moving;
slow to recede, fast to return. You hold me close,
take what is dear to me. You press, and you pull,
and you push, push, push, bringing everything
with you. Always leaving nothing for me.
I lay open, bare, confused by my lack of home,
discarded like a stone, left to search for you
into deeper waters.
When you come back, you are new;
perhaps warmer, or perhaps colder,
depends on where you've been. Where
your currents always travel. It always
depends on where you've been, but your
current had brought with it my filter of grains,
the white stark sand. The place I rested,
and where I deemed my home.
And you left it somewhere far beyond my reach,
apathetic to my struggle.
With your new presence, you leave me to burrow once more,
either shallower or deeper than before, in grainy arms
and lulling currents, making me anticipate when you would
leave again. Because I always have to find a new way to fix and
build my home, when the only thing you've ever done is make
me wait for you to come back.
And I am always surprised of the fact that I always stay.
