Where Have You Been?

When you don't watch me,

I stir unseen in distant storms,

generate ground swells in silence—

a whisper to the horizon,

a signal beneath satellites.

I pulse my waves your way

like a young heartbeat,

timed to pounce on your shores,

a steel rhythm pounding

the hidden drum of the Earth,

syncing with the moon’s breath,

spilling in tides across hemispheres

where you once stood, waiting for signs.

You search surf forecasts

like a priest reading entrails,

chasing ghosts on wind maps,

arrowed pressure systems,

a prayer spoken in offshore breeze—

but still,

I remain just out of reach.

When I don’t hear from you,

I throw myself against jagged reefs

in protest.

I rattle your beaches

like minor earthquakes.

I scream through howling winds,

whip grains of sand into your ears,

etching reminders onto your wax,

embedding salt into your leash string,

into the cracks of your board,

into the creases of your soul.

Still, you don’t come.

You check the cams.

You drive the coast.

You wait at dawn.

Glass calm.

Flat as a sigh.

Where have you been?

When you don’t taste me,

I weep my tears into the deep,

salinating the sea in sorrow—

a brine so thick it stuns the tongue,

a bubbly stew of plankton, memory,

and every promise

you once whispered

into the spray.

When you don’t touch me,

I release what I’ve held back—

living waters sprung from the abyss,

God’s own shimmer breaking free

through pinwheeled lips of foam.

I unravel myself

into endless lines,

each one a ribbon of light

unridden,

rejected,

receding.

You paddle out too late,

or too soon.

Wrong spot.

Wrong tide.

I hold back.

Or I break early,

closing out with spite,

a vanishing act at the peak

of your desire.

And when you don’t surf me,

I always show you

what you’re missing.

A perfect A-frame at dawn,

a rogue set from nowhere,

a whisper of wind

that would have lifted you

just right.

Still, you chase,

compass in hand,

calendar marked,

but never quite there—

like chasing a mirage

that remembers

every time

you turned your back.

So where have you been?

Because I’ve been here—

rising,

waiting,

aching

to be ridden.

And I’m not sure

how much longer

I’ll wait.