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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