Every time I hear the waves crash yearningly onto the shore, I hear her voice crying out to me. She's screaming at me, though I can't make out the words, and god damn it to this day I still cannot make out the words, I still find them deeply rooted into my soul like the scribble of a child's script. You know what she means, you know what she is trying to say, you even form the words out into your head and they linger there on your tongue, but when you open your mouth, it's just gasps and gaping, it's just anxiety at three in the morning, it's just nostalgia at every corner you turn, it's a silent scream when you smell a remainder of her on your bedsheets and no matter how many times you wash them, it still loiters your sleep with her presence.
And yet, here I come back, here she pulls me back and the temptation of her grasps at my throat, and I know to get back the air she is stealing from me, I must go to her. So here I come back, where the waves make a grave of the sea, and the current is her tombstone, angrily crawling onto the sand, imprinting its contempt into the land, and then retreating into the graveyard where she lays, then repeating these steps over and over in the façade of a beautiful landmark but I know what she is portraying to me, I feel her.
The breeze speaks to me as loudly as she does, her voice singing violently in the hushes of the whirling air as it hits me repressedly, reminding me of the steps I took to lose her. The steps I took where I reached out my hand, but she was folded into the curls of the waves over and over again, like she was folded into the sheets and smiling at me, only now, in this remembrance of a moment, I hear her screaming for me. And my hand touches the tips of her fingers but not lovingly; these are not graceful moments, these are moments of desperation, and I call to her and I beg to her, and my tears and my screams all blend into the sea that is enveloping her and I call to the waters now, and I beg to the waters now, to free her.
I see her hand break out of the waves again, but this is the last time I'll ever see any surface of her. For she belongs to the sea now.
And I return here, when she calls back to me, and I remember how she thought this is what she wanted. I remember how she thought that the ocean was there to save her, and then I remember that, even though I wanted to, even though I begged to, even when she realised that the violent waters were not her home and this is not what she desired after all, it was too late. And I remember that I couldn't save her.
