Salt Diary

The tide keeps its own ledger, each wave a sentence half-finished, foam punctuating the dark sand with questions nobody filed.

I found a glass bottle once, green as an unpicked olive, its message dissolved to pulp— the ocean had read it first and chosen not to forward.

There are mornings the salt air tastes like a room someone has just left, the warmth of their hand still pressing the doorknob.

We build so carefully against the retreating water, our castles precise and towered, not because they will stand but because the building is the only diary the sand accepts.