Undertow

It comes and goes, this leaving you:
like tides that kiss then pull away,
a rhythm old, yet always new,
that shapes the shore but cannot stay.

Some days, the sea lies soft and clear,
its breath a lull, its gaze at rest;
I almost think you’ve disappeared
from all the harbors in my chest.

But moons still rise, and with their light
the waves return, unasked, unplanned;
they scale the dark, they burn the night,
and smooth again the aching sand.

The undertow still knows my name,
it pulls me back to where we were;
its whispers sound almost the same,
yet blur each time the waters stir.

I drift through currents warm, then cold,
where love feels sharp, yet strangely kind;
each swell gives way, each drop grows old,
and leaves new ridges in my mind.

The wreckage from our storm still gleams,
half-buried deep, half-floating free;
but piece by piece, those splintered dreams
become the planks that carry me.

I gather driftwood from the past,
small relics of the love we knew;
they float beside me, fade at last,
then sink beneath the shifting blue.

Yet in the pull, I sometimes find
a strange new strength I didn’t see:
a map the ocean leaves behind,
drawn not for you, but made for me.

I’ve learned the ocean does not run
in straight, obedient lines for me;
it yields, it fights, it comes undone,
and still, it shapes me endlessly.

So let the tide turn as it must;
I’ll stand, though waters pull apart.
One day, I’ll hold my love in trust—
all for myself, my steadfast heart.