It moves.
It moves.

And I am a breath between branches.
I am the slow and languid space
between the shell and the sea.

There’s places where the tide goes,
and I wonder if it’ll ever invite me.

Try.
Try and tell me something.
Anything.

Whisper your wisdom,
and I’ll whisper mine.

Let the space between words hold us.
Let it paint night skies and black holes,
and the cracks between bricks.

Give a little chance
for nothing to become everything.
Hold a little space
for possibility.

There’s words on my lips.
And time on my hands.
And they drip, drip, drip—

like steam down the kitchen tile,
like air I forgot to breathe.

I wonder if the tide has forgotten me.
I wonder if the trees remember
who moves between them.

I wonder if I’ll ever be
more sea than shell,
more sky than cloud.

Don’t forget me.
Please.