Salt Library

The tide keeps a library no one can visit, volumes bound in kelp and nacre, each wave a page dog-eared by wind.

I found a sentence once, written in foam across the flats at dawn — something about how every shore is a rough draft of leaving.

The librarian is the current itself, reshuffling the stacks each hour, filing the unreadable alongside the almost-understood, cataloguing the sound a shell makes when it forgets it was ever whole.

There are no late fees here, only the slow accumulation of salt on everything you meant to return — the trust of an open hand, the trust of an open hand closing.