What Water Carries

Water holds the city in its mouth— salt from skin, dust from streets, the residue of every thaw. It remembers you without your consent.

Each molecule a tiny librarian shelving stories in its lattice, carrying grief downstream, depositing time in river deltas.

We think we shed our past like skin, but the ocean knows better. It's all still there, in the places water goes, in the rain that comes again.