He knelt by the shore,
cupped water to his lips—
salt cracked his mouth open,
but the thirst stayed.
Later, when grief swelled in him,
and the tears streamed down
his face like desperate rivers,
he dared to taste them.
The same salt—
from inside, from outside.
He looked to the horizon,
where the waves folded in on themselves
like secrets whispered back,
and wondered if the ocean knew
something he did not.
Perhaps he was made
not just of earth
but of endless weeping.
A world spilling from him,
as ancient and unending
as the sea.
