I have stepped into the sea
and felt it — cold, wavering through me.
Then I felt me,
inside the sea.

​

Like watching fire,
knowing you have never burned —
with eyes that mirrored
what they couldn’t hold.

Flame and gaze:
as the same matter.

​

As a child,
I once wondered —
why does a touch feel one-sided,
until I place my hand on my own arm
and feel some sensation from both directions?

Sitting in the dirt,
digging, throwing,
digging again.

​

Now, sometimes,
I feel the sea touching me
as I touch the sea.

​

It’s not empathy.
Not absence.
It’s something in between,
always changing shape.

​

My blood has never spilled.
Contained in me still holds pressure.
 

Each time I reach,
my hands are searching
for the same source —
the blood in me,
the sea in the other —

​

Water,
always pulling toward itself.