Tide-worn

The stones remember saltwater— each wave a small confession, grinding their sharp corners into submission. Nothing lasts without yielding.

A hand learns its own landscape by touch, the way forgetting is a kind of smoothing, how we become polished by what wears us down until we fit against the world more easily.

The lighthouse beam still turns, indifferent to the rocks it spares. Below, the tide insists on its slow mathematics, converting granite into sand, turning hardness into something you can hold without drawing blood.

We are all becoming something smaller, something that settles easier in cupped palms. Perhaps this is not loss— perhaps this is the ocean teaching us gentleness.