Where the Ocean Keeps Its Secrets

The ocean does not argue with the shore—

it arrives, withdraws, returns again,

a patient architect of surrender.

At dawn, it wears a silver hush,

like a thought not yet spoken.

By noon, it is a cathedral of light,

blue stained-glass trembling

under the weight of the sun.

I have stood before it,

small as a forgotten prayer,

and felt my noise dissolve

into its breathing.

Each wave a confession,

each tide a lesson in letting go.

The ocean knows the language of distance.

It pulls what it loves,

then releases it gently—

teaching that possession

is not devotion.

Beneath its surface

lie cities of coral and quiet storms,

where darkness is not absence

but depth.

Where creatures glow

without needing witness.

How brave, to be so vast—

to hold shipwrecks and stars alike,

to cradle both ruin and reflection

without choosing one over the other.

When night descends,

the sea becomes a mirror

stitched with broken moons.

And I understand then:

we are all oceans in disguise—

restless on the surface,

immense underneath.

So let the waves undo you.

Let the salt sting your old wounds clean.

Stand at the edge

and listen.

Somewhere between the roar

and the retreat

is the sound of who you are

becoming.