Salt and Suspension

The bay is a bowl of silver milk, where the hulls of ghost-ships rock in the cradle of a muted tide.

Gulls are only echoes now, calls that needle through the gray to stitch the sky to the shivering water.

We walk where the land dissolves, our breath thickening the air until we are part of the blurring horizon.

Everything solid is a memory, a promise kept by the hidden stones beneath the weight of the white breath.