The Tide Has Bones

Tides Have Bones I fold my feelings into a paper boat and set it afloat in the lamplight of the deep night. It doesn't sink. Even when the wind presses down from somewhere unseen, I quietly straighten its mast in my heart. Others see only the calm surface of the sea, but I hear the name of every undercurrent below. They are not enemies, but messages not yet understood. I spread out my fears, let my loneliness dry beneath the moonlight, and gather those tiny, out-of-place acts of tenderness, one by one, into my pocket. Some say sensitivity is a weakness. But I know that softness has a backbone, too. It lets me tell which words are true amid the clamor, and leave a light burning for someone quiet even after the crowd has gone. When I fall, it lets me see not only the wound, but also the new path growing beneath it. I'm in no hurry to arrive. True distance is often hidden in the moments when we bow our heads to steady our breathing. So I let myself go slowly. I let my tears have weight, and the night echo. But I never let myself stop. Because I know that when the tide recedes, what it leaves on the shore is not ruin, but shells, starlight, and markers pointing toward the next journey. And I will carry these glimmers with me, walking toward a wider sea.