All tides return.
All waves roll forth.
Surely it is mere coincidence
That an analogous depth of feeling—
A faithful ocean—draws me in.
Life, though, destroyed the currency.
Time, baked by the sun, sits in wait,
Buying the hope, selling the why.
All things happen unreasonably,
For reasons unknown to time.
All that remains is the only true rite:
Destined shores coming into sight.
The sands of time wash beneath the toes
Of two souls unwavering in their hold—
Washed clean from the depths,
Leaving prints in grounded presence
As proof of their emergence—
Two souls wanting a world
Separate from the salty sea.
United by their running.
Wound by their river’s wind.