You came like tide—unseen, then known,
Wearing down the edges of my stone.
Salt-laced wind in a voice I chased,
A taste of ruin I could not waste.
You scattered both the salt and seed,
In cracks where grief and want would bleed.
A promise buried, thin and slight—
Still, I held on beneath the white.
You held me close, then pulled away,
Like surf that smooths, then slips to gray.
Each word you spoke was brine and balm,
A storm that learned to mimic calm.
I planted hope where none should grow,
In salted earth, beneath the flow.
A seed, half-buried, dared to stay—
To root, to reach, despite the sway.
You were the sea—too vast to hold,
Too cold to warm, too old to fold.
Yet still I tried to stem the tide,
To keep what waves refused to bide.
In moonlit hush, I saw the truth:
Love’s not a shore—it’s what it soothes.
It breaks and builds, it takes, it feeds,
It carries salt and drops the seeds.
Some sprout, then break. Some never rise.
Some drown beneath indifferent skies.
But mine—I watched it pierce the crust,
A shoot of will, a stem of trust.
You never knew the roots it made,
How deep they drank, how long they stayed.
Though salt still lingers in my chest,
The seed has bloomed. I let it rest.
So now I walk the shifting sand,
Not needing map or guiding hand.
The sea still calls, but I am free—
Both salt and seed have made me—me.
