Stroke the sea
with your paddle
with your paddle
Brush the tide
Like the fine hairs of time.
The breeze passes through me,
a ghost in the water.
I sink to my knees in sand,
cling to safety with twine.
Wrap myself in salt.
There are trees growing
in the place we last spoke.
in the place we last spoke.
I lift my eyes to the shimmer of light,
peaking through leaves,
and around the edges of your lips
in the distant memory.
Wishing on every star;
save me, please.
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