The tide she whispers to me,
softly, gently, like a mother who never was.
"The truth is ugly," she sings,
echoing around the rocks, where the sea scratches itself against the shore.
I listen close, my ears wet from her salty breath.
Sometimes, she tells me stories of the things that once were.
Forgotten shells and lost fish, all swimming in dreams.
Dive deeper or float away.