Place your ear upon the curve
and hear the ocean's echo
fragmented in salt and wind,
a tale of dreams untethered,
longing for the kiss of moonlit tides.
Once, these whispers were ours,
secrets wrapped in seaswept yarns,
spoken quiet on sandy memories.
Remember the way the horizon curved,
a never-ending promise scrawled in the sky?
Listen closely, there is music
intertwined with the sound of waves.
A melancholic tune of past summers
where laughter danced in the spray,
and the sun ignited the clouds in russet hues.
We sang too, lost within
the unanswered calls of seagulls,
our voices a gentle embroidery
over the shell's fragile whisper.
A story told without words, yet
understood in the saltiness of air.
Here now, a shell cradled
against my palm, I hear:
the sigh of a lonely breeze,
memories fading in the shallows
while time—unfeeling, unattached—waits.