The Ocean Remembers Me

I press my hand to the tide,
and it presses back
Not with force,
but with memory.

The sea does not forget
the weight of my breath,
the pause
of my heart
just before entry.

She knows the shape of my silence,
the rhythm I once danced
through kelp and shadow.

Even now,
when my body falters,
exiling me from my blue cathedral,
the ocean awaits.

Not with urgency,
but with presence.
Not with pity,
but with promise.

She calls not to the strong,
but to the willing.
Not to the unbroken,
but to those remembering to yield.

And so, as I heal –
bone, blood, breath –
I listen.

And in the whisper of the wave,
I hear her sweet voice again:

Welcome home.