an ocean of thoughts adrift, and thoughts- come gently crashing like waves upon a shore. Fervent, as always, but muted by repetition. High tide, low tide, it wears the rocks equally, turns cliffsides into smooth unobjectionable stones.
but not all thoughts end up quiet, and not all stones end up polished smooth. shell shards still rip at tourist’s feet, and glass bottles still splay where the waves rarely hit.
that is the silence, that is the loss; objectified as a green beer bottle strewn about a dune. In time the waves will move up and reclaim it, but for now. It is as sharp as the day it was tossed, idly- or intentionally. It wouldn’t have mattered.
death is a funny thing like that, sometimes it leads to rebirth, and the bottle was perhaps but an egg, and our remains, just shells. Somewhere further down the coast, something clucks, and floats. It accosts the tourists who wander this way, unaware of anything ever being lost.
