Miramar

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.