The Obsidian Tide

The salt crusts over rusted gears, where the brine licks the shore with an ancient tongue, pulling the marrow from the iron hull until only a skeleton remains to sing.

Tides do not measure in minutes or days, but in the slow grind of stone to sand, in the polished edges of seaglass memories scattered along the tideline of the world.

We stand at the edge, pockets heavy with shells, listening to the deep rhythmic inhale, knowing the water takes back everything it once promised to hold.