You can find me waving on the shore,
Scoffing at snorkelers searching for seashells 
And pulling up only broken glass.

You are standing on the deck of a ship that has sailed, 
Hair stiff with sea salt, reflecting 
The sun atop my sunken, still eyelids.

And I’m grasping at the image of you 
with sand-brittled feet
And carrying it to the bank of moments I’ll release

Into the ocean, wordlessly wishing
That, just as you left by the current’s hand,
I won’t find them waving back.

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