the whispers of the tides, they speak in a language only the moon understands. dreams suspended in droplets forgotten
once, in silence I saw a seagull drawing letters in the sand, each stroke a heartbeat echoing through the tightly woven fabric of evening fog
beneath the surface, voices hum, vibrations of desire lost to the night breeze calling upon mariner spirits who once knew how to weave dreams from foam
islands too distant in the sea's muddy memory, scattered like stars, or perhaps remnants of dreams—the kind you wake up and find already fading
tides rise, fall, echo, a soft rhythm against the coastal echoes of our consciousness, the boundaries of thought draped in seaweed and the sound of distant laughter