Salt Diary

The tide keeps a journal in broken shells and drift-logged wood, each entry salted shut against rereading.

I found a spine of coral near the jetty, white as a word stripped of its vowels, holding the shape of something that once swayed and meant to stay.

There are losses too small for grief— a button from a coat you sold, the pitch of a door that no longer exists. The sea collects them all the same.

At dusk the water turns to mercury, heavy with the light it swallowed. I press my palm against the wet sand and watch it forget me in the time it takes to breathe.