Salt Memoir

The tide keeps its own calendar, scratching tallies into the breakwater with a patience older than sandstone.

I found your handwriting in a jar once, the ink already thinning to watercolor — each vowel a small bay where meaning pooled and evaporated.

The fishermen mend nets at dusk, their fingers remembering knots the way shorelines remember storms: not the event, but the shape it left behind.

Salt teaches everything about loss — how it enters through the wound, how it preserves what it stings, how the ocean tastes of every river that forgot its name arriving.

Tonight the harbor holds still. A single lantern drifts the surface, and the water, faithful plagiarist, carries two moons where there is one.