I see you are out at sea. Remnants of you left  on the strand line full of dried sargassum seaweed woven between rotten driftwood  and shriveled up garbage. Their smell pungent  like the burning of coals. But either way, I walk past  the mark of the tide  towards the surf. The sand loosely moving  underneath my feet  along the drift of the sea,  like ashes in a shooken urn. As the current of the riptide pulls away between my toes, and the tired sun sets the tone  that the day is over. the ocean begins to call. the same way you’ve described to me. The roaring of the sea is so loud now. The crashing of the waves  painfully crushing  the drums of my waterlogged ears  after a long day of swimming in the surf. But I still yearn for more— I want to answer the call. The stormy nimbostratus clouds float  gracefully on the horizon. Hauntingly manipulating the seabed below the surface, forming undertows pulling more and more sand out to sea. I hope you are safe,  because soon enough, the coastline will change.