I live on a cliffside, embedded in the granite
with a stairwell of seven crafted steps
that lead to the oceans door.
Each step is weathered, eroded by
the crashing of the waves against the stone.
🧵
with a stairwell of seven crafted steps
that lead to the oceans door.
Each step is weathered, eroded by
the crashing of the waves against the stone.
🧵
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and that I wouldn't get my socks wet.
"Just don't come inside with
seaweed in your shoes," she called.
like a desert in the peak of summer,
craggy and carved upon by feet and shoetreads.
It has seen a kiss,
and a thousand tears.
I left my heart on that step knowing it may
be safe from the tide,
but never from the people who sat upon it.
When the tide is highest, and it seems
to lap at the door,
it leaves a slick coat of seasalt across the rim of stone
and settled crabs between the cracks.
It has tasted all the screams I have sent to the oceans maw,
hoping they may leave me
and be swallowed in the blue.
They never were.
as if testing the water.
It's been a bit battered by the shale- dented
and dinged up,
but it has character.
A need to find out what may be deeper.
The third step is the point of no return,
when the sea is simply too close
and the door too far to come back to.