Archive of Tides

The lighthouse is a hollow reed, wind playing it with wet fingers, each note a gull that forgets its own shadow. Salt scales the steps like a quiet snowfall.

Inside, the keeper's log is a tidepool of ink; names swirl with sand, a small weather of loss. A cracked lens keeps its cold, planet-like gaze, collecting the dark the way mussels hold the moon.

Out on the rocks, ropes sleep in knots, dreaming of weight and the old pull of craft. Barnacles script their patient alphabets across the hulls of ghosts that never left.

And I, ankle-deep in the hour's gray, read the surf as a slow, breathing archive— pages turning themselves, water to water, unlearning and returning in the same motion.