Where the Ocean Trusted Us

She surfaced where our silence thinned,

where water listens before it speaks.

A curve of silver laughter,

a question shaped like a smile.

We came with hands—

awkward, unfinned,

heavy with history—

and she came with knowing,

ancient as tides,

light as breath.

She learned our names

not from sound,

but from the weight we carried in our chests.

She knew which of us grieved,

which of us still hoped,

which of us had forgotten how to play.

When she circled us,

it wasn’t possession.

It was permission.

You may be here,

the water said through her body.

You may remember joy.

We reached out—

not to claim,

not to tame—

but to say, We are still learning how to be gentle.

Her skin held stories

we could never translate,

yet somehow understood.

Love without contracts.

Trust without cages.

Connection without conquest.

She stayed just long enough

to undo us.

To teach us that intelligence can be kind,

that affection doesn’t need ownership,

that some beings love us

despite our noise,

our nets,

our forgetting.

And when she vanished

into blue deeper than apology,

the sea felt fuller—

not because she left,

but because she showed us

what love looks like

when it expects nothing

and gives everything.

Somewhere beneath the waves,

a dolphin still remembers

the strange land-creatures

who finally learned

to listen.