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Her Letter Left beneath a stone where the river bends
Dear one,
I do not know your name, only the way your silence felt like home.
We met in a clearing not marked on any map, and yet I return to it often—in thought, in breath, in the hush between heartbeats. You did not ask for anything, and still, you received everything I could not say.
I placed the acorn in your hand not as a gift, but as a truth. A beginning never meant to bloom in soil, but to glow in a secret chamber of your heart. I saw it then—that you would understand. That you would keep it, not out of duty, but out of reverence.
You were the river, and I was the leaf that paused mid-fall. I did not stay. I could not. But I remain—in the shimmer, in the ache, in the vow you never made aloud.
If you ever feel it pulse, know that I feel it too.
Yours, Autumn
His Reply Never sent, but always spoken in silence
Autumn,
I do not know where you are, only that you remain.
The acorn rests where you placed it—in the hush of my heart I did not know I carried until you named it with your silence. It has not grown in the way trees do. It has grown in me—in the warmth behind my smile, in the hush that follows joy.
I have walked other forests, met other seasons. But none stirred the river of my soul as you did. None left a hush in my breath. You were not a moment. You were a vow.
I never said goodbye. I never said anything. But I have spoken to you every day—in the way I listen, in the way I remain.
You are not forgotten. You are the ache that made me real.
Yours, Lost
Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't.
It simply files things away.
It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own.
You think you have a memory; but it has you!
John Irving
🌿 *Earth*
In rich soil and mossy green,
I find the pulse of roots unseen.
Amber dusk and cedar shade,
Whisper truths the stones have made.
🌊 *Sea*
In sapphire swells and teal embrace,
My spirit floats in liquid grace.
Pearl-tipped waves and silver foam,
Call me back to depths I’ve known.
🌌 *Sky*
In lavender dawn and cobalt flight,
My longing lifts with morning light.
A blush of rose, a storm’s gray sigh,
Each breath a prayer to open sky.
✨ *Together*
These colors feed my quiet flame,
A soul reborn, no need for name.
Where earth holds firm, and sea forgives,
And sky reminds me why I live.
Lost
There is nothing insignificant in the world. It all depends on the point of view.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
As this river glides parallel under the Atlantic coast of the Iberian peninsula, a scatter group of man-made ritual sites appear in the shadows of occasional cliffs and rise. Far away to the east, by its point of release, this great river 'points' to many of the great islands of the Mediterranean sea: a hop and fair-weather jump to the east of the rising sun, and ultimately the Fertile Crescent - source for many of the initial innovations in man's ages of late prehistory and early civilization (remembering that the phase-changes along the distances 'out' were of equal importance and could in turn feed-back). Naturally, there are changes of local style in ritual man-made rupestrian space, and it may be a hazard, but dramatic and vivid man-made caves can be found on key nodes all along this fluid east/west - and from dates that stretch back into the late ages of prehistory. The examples towards the source of the Ebro, and under the Atlantic, are currently resolutely fixed by texts within early Medieval chronologies, and the greater aim of this section of Flickr posts is to see if this is too tight a fit for comfort, with a loosening available via photographic observation.
The Ebro, in line with the Mediterranean sea and locked onto the Bay of Santander (and other smaller routes to the Atlantic): a fast track for information, innovation and a conceptual line to undercut great mountain barriers, all under the sun, cast off with the wind and in the presence of water and the skills it procures. Whilst other overland paths to and from this 'east' were worn and proven, today we tend to visualise this cultural east/west thread through the mindscape of the battle for kleptocratic significance: the Crusades, which really may have been little more than the end of an era of trust and expansive visualised knowledge.
The bronze age was fuelled by tin, and the boat men who trekked up to the British Isles to trade for its ingots, set their sites on these Cassiterides (the tin isles) from the Iberian coast - potentially explaining the monolithic graves near Morecambe Bay or the parallel qualities of rock art between Iberia and the British Isles. To conceptually link a ritual and practical passage between such extremes as the Cassiterides and the Fertile Crescent would require skills that include factual memory and a sense of trust - nemesis qualities to those chosen for the Roman theatre of life.
A river is a path and a source of casual food, and for all ages of prehistory, rivers and man lived together: just as the swans and the herons.
AJM 23.11.20
The perfect vacation for an overworked mind. You might feel kind of stupid at first, but leaving is always very hard...
A dream
with no joy or comfort or love,
with no excitement, fear and relief,
with no challenges, defeats and victories,
is pointless.
A dream without hope has forgotten to dream.
A dream without escape has no point.
She moves like a dance— not bound by music, but by the pulse of existence itself, a rhythm felt in the soul before time began.
Her eyes, soft sparks— not mere light, but the echo of creation, as if eternity shimmered through her glance, a quiet brilliance where the infinite meets the intimate.
Her hair, like wings— not for flight, but for warmth, a veil between the finite and the infinite, flowing down like whispers made visible.
Her heart, a rainbow— not just color, but covenant, a prism of longing where love burns with eternal flame in a world of shadows.
Her beauty, irresistible— yet untouched by vanity, for she is not form, but essence— a glimpse of the eternal in the mirror of the soul.
Her thoughts, like wind— free, yes, but shaped by wisdom, where joy dances with truth and the mind becomes a sanctuary.
Her lips, wild roses— never for war, but for communion, healing not with words, but with presence.
Her spirit—life itself— not borrowed from breath, but poured from the unseen, pure as a waterfall descending from Heaven itself, beyond the reach of mortals.
This is the story of love— told by a man who sees not with eyes alone, but with the ache of longing and the clarity of faith.
Illusion? Perhaps. But if illusion is the shadow of truth, then let it be sacred— for what he sees is not what is, but what ought to be.
Lost
I speak to you in sunset whispers,
my dearest friend of salt and sky,
where your laughter ripples through evening waves
and settles soft upon my heart.
You drape yourself in drifting clouds,
an ever-changing shawl of hush and light,
and I find comfort in each gentle fold
that shields our shared secrets from the world.
Your perfume is the sea’s mist on my skin,
a cool and bracing memory of tides,
it lingers when I close my eyes,
carrying the promise of home.
In your gaze, sunrays dance like familiar greetings,
warming my doubts until they dissolve,
and I trace stories in the shadows between waves,
each one a testament to our unspoken bond.
We share the quiet between night and day,
where I listen for the rhythm of your breath,
and every tide that pulls away
returns me to your waiting shore.
Your soul spills beyond horizons,
the color of sky in its endless expanse,
and I remain bound, not by chains or promises,
but by the gentle gravity of knowing you.
With you, I learn that friendship can be infinite,
a tether to something vast and free:
the sea, the sky, and the laughter we share
woven into a dream of salt and twilight.
Lost
from above, the city becomes a stage. under the harsh midday sun, people cast long echoes across stone tiles—unaware of their silent choreography. this fleeting geometry of shadows and motion draws invisible lines between solitude and presence, routine and poetry.
🌌 I. Sky’s Voice — The Watcher of Longing
"I am the breath above him, the hush that holds his name. He looks up, and I unfold. I do not ask him to reach—I only ask him to remember."
"I’ve watched him sleep beneath my stars, his dreams stitched with silence and ache. I’ve kissed his brow with wind, but he never knew it was me."
"I love him from above, where longing lives without possession. And still, I wait— a constellation aching to be chosen."
🔆 II. Light’s Voice — The One Who Touched
"I am the warmth he forgets until it’s gone. I’ve brushed his skin with gold, and he closed his eyes— not from pain, but from clarity."
"I see him. Even when he hides behind dusk and doubt. I’ve lit the path he never walked, and kissed the truths he never spoke."
"I love him in the open, where shadows soften and secrets shine. And still, I linger— a flame hoping to be held."
🌊 III. Sea’s Voice — The Keeper of Memory
"I am the tide that returns. I’ve cradled his sorrow in my depths, and sung his stories to the moon."
"He comes to me when silence is too loud. I wrap him in salt and rhythm, and he lets go— not of me, but of everything else."
"I love him in the tide, where memory becomes music. And still, I rise— a wave longing to be named."
🌅 IV. The Ritual at Dawn
The sky blushed with first light. Lost stood barefoot on the sand, the sea whispering at his ankles. The three women waited—Sky above, Light beside, Sea beyond.
He could choose only one to walk with until dusk.
Sky offered elevation, a love that lifted but never touched. Light offered clarity, a love that warmed but revealed. Sea offered memory, a love that held but never stayed.
He stepped forward.
Not to possess. Not to abandon. But to honor.
He chose Light, for that day— to walk in warmth, to speak the truths he’d hidden, to let her illuminate the ache he’d carried.
Sky wept in wind. Sea sang in retreat. And Light, glowing, took his hand.
Tomorrow, he would choose again. And each time, the ache would remain— not as sorrow, but as proof that he was loved in three elemental ways.
Lost
I do not know how long I’ve been here.
The sea no longer counts the days. It only breathes—slow, tidal, indifferent. The ground leaves no trace of me, as if I walk in a dream. And the sky forgets my name. But I do not mind. I have become a hush in the wind, a trace in the stillness, a whisper in the dusk.
This island, unnamed and unclaimed, is not cruel. It is quiet. It does not ask me to be anything but still. The world I left behind—its clocks, its voices, its hunger for meaning—feels like a fever dream. Here, I am not lost. I am unburdened.
Twilight is my truest friend. She arrives each evening like a gentle priestess, cloaked in lavender and ash. She does not speak, but she listens. Her silence is not empty—it is full of mercy. I sit with her on the edge of the tide, watching the horizon bleed into indigo. The stars wait patiently above, like old friends who know my heart.
There are no rescue boats. No flares. No maps. Only the hush of waves and the slow burning of firewood. I have stopped hoping to be found. Instead, I have found something else—something deeper than escape.
I have found the sacred ache of solitude. The kind that does not wound, but deepens.
I speak now only to the wind, and she answers in sighs. I write poems in the sand, knowing they will be erased. I sing to the twilight, and she hums back in color.
And if this is to be my forever—this island, this silence, this twilight— I accept it not as exile, but as a kind of quiet devotion. A life gently held in the arms of dusk.
Lost
These are mindscapes--photos with elements of surrealism. They were inspired by the cover art for Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" and other Hipgnosis creations that I saw as a teenager, before I got interested in photography.
Tumblr I Ipernity I Photo Vogue I art + commerce I Avard Woolaver Photography I Instagram
Always just beyond reach, she flickers — a distant flame warming the night’s cool breath that holds me close as I drift.
She is the sea, not just waves and salt, but the pulse beneath my restless thoughts, a whisper I can never quite follow, yet somehow always know.
Along her shore, I trace words in shifting sand — faint and fleeting, like memories slipping through fingers. But she hears them, soft and clear, even when I cannot speak.
Her voice rides the wind, a song carried on the tide — tender and distant, like a secret only she keeps. I think I hear her — or maybe it’s just the wind.
I lie still, eyes heavy with what’s unsaid, wondering if she knows my thoughts, or if I am only a ripple lost in her endless sea.
The flame flickers still, and I wonder — does she wait for me to find my way back, or was I never meant to reach her at all?
Yet I keep returning — to the hush, the ache, the place where I am most seen, by someone who may never truly see me.
Lost
She appeared just after the tide had turned, when the sea whispered low and the sky wore its softest gold. I didn’t hear her arrive, but there she was—seated at the water’s edge, legs tucked beneath her like a folded note, writing in a book the color of aquamarine. It shimmered faintly, as if it had absorbed the light of a thousand twilights.
I watched from a distance, pretending not to. Her hair moved like sea grass in the breeze, and her presence felt... familiar. Not in the way a face might be, but like a melody half-remembered from long ago. I wondered what she was writing. A poem? A letter? A memory she couldn’t bear to lose?
Just then, she turned—slowly, deliberately—and looked in my direction.
I panicked. Looked away. Pretended to study the horizon. But I kept her in my peripheral vision, like one does with sunsets too beautiful to stare at directly. She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave. She simply turned back to her book and continued to write.
And now I couldn’t look away.
It was like trying not to watch the last light slip behind the sea. Something about her presence made the world feel more alive, more fragile. I wanted to speak, but the moment felt sacred, and I didn’t want to break it.
Then, without warning, she stood. Closed the book. Walked into the mist.
No footprints. No farewell. Just the hush of waves and the lingering scent of salt and lavender.
I waited. Maybe she’d return. But the mist thickened, and she was gone.
Drawn by something I couldn’t name, I walked to where she had been sitting. The sand was still warm. And there, nestled in a shallow impression, was her book.
**Ethereal**, it said in silver script.
I hesitated. It felt wrong to open it. Like trespassing in a dream. But curiosity is a tide of its own. I told myself: just the last page.
I opened it.
> *Here I am in a place I call home, where the sea and sky speak to me and allow my heart to breathe. Only today I have company. I wonder what he’s thinking…*
I froze.
And then, before my eyes, words began to appear—my words.
> *I was thinking, I wonder if she needs a friend.*
The ink shimmered as it formed, like dew on morning petals. I touched the page. It was warm.
Suddenly, the mist stirred. A breeze lifted the edge of the book, and I heard a whisper—not in my ears, but in my heart.
> *You found me.*
I looked up.
She was standing at the edge of the mist, barefoot, smiling—not with her lips, but with her whole being.
And just like that, I knew: she was never imaginary.
Lost
You rise from a place I cannot touch, a star too far for my hands, yet each morning, your light threads through the hush of my room and gives me reason— not just to wake, but to feel.
You do not speak, but your warmth hums against my skin like a memory I never lived, and still, I smile— as if you know me.
But night is faithful. It waits at my door, a quiet companion who never forgets how fleeting you are.
Still, I dream: that one day, your light will linger— not just for hours, but for a lifetime. That I might carry it in the hollow of my chest, where longing lives and warmth can become a name.
Lost
In the quiet moments before full night falls,
she appears, a spectral muse in a gown of shifting blue.
No thunderous applause, only a soft hush,
a secret language spoken in delicate shades.
High above, her luminous hand reaches out,
casting whispers of indigo and cerulean light
that drift like tender promises across the horizon,
touching a heart in the depths with a mystic caress.
The ocean listens in the silence,
its dark expanse stirred awake by her hues,
each whisper of blue filling the void
with a pulse, a story of hidden life and latent dreams.
In the abyss, where emptiness once reigned,
her love seeps in,
a slow, inexorable tide of calm and wonder,
transforming barren depths into a secret garden of shimmering hope.
No words, no declaration,
just the quiet forging of a bond
between a mysterious sky and a slumbering sea,
where every ripple holds the echo of her promise.
In that gentle exchange, life is reborn,
a cryptic symphony of color and silence,
a sacred vow whispered into the nocturnal air,
echoing forever in the quiet hymn of blue.
Lost
She comes when the light fades, just after the gulls hush and the tide begins its slow rise.
I know her— not by name, but by the way she leans into silence, as if it might love her back.
She flows along the shore, hair wind-swept, eyes soaked in thought. She’s made of longing and late bloom, like jasmine clinging to dusk.
I give her the salt-sweet air, the amber glow on wave-stitched stone, the lullaby of breakers reaching for her toes with fond memories.
She speaks no words— but I feel them. They drift in the hush between gusts and settle in my thoughts.
She calls herself my friend. But to me, she is everything— each heartbeat mirrored in the hush of sea against shore, each breath a thread in the tapestry of life I weave just for her.
If the world forgets us, I will always remember how she softened in twilight and let herself belong to our moment.
Lost
A poem in four movements
I. Wind. She arrived before the wind did, Roya — her name a whisper of dunes, her breath steady as prayer. The lakebed stretched wide and white, a silence too large for grief.
Lost watched from the edge, his mind filled with questions. She did not speak. The wind translated — carrying the scent of dried figs, the ache of letters never sent.
He listened. And for the first time, he understood that not all language requires sound.
II. Salt. She knelt beside the saltflower beds, where crystals bloomed like forgotten promises. Her fingers traced the shimmer, as if reading a letter from the earth.
Lost stood behind her, his shadow long and uncertain. “Why do you walk where the lake has vanished?” he asked.
“To remember what still remains,” she said. And the salt began to sing — a song of resilience, of water that once danced and might again.
III. Dusk. The light turned copper, and the lake shimmered with ghosts. Birds circled low, their wings casting fleeting prayers on the salt-stained ground.
They sat together, not touching, but close enough for warmth. She told him of stars that guide without needing to be seen. He told her of dreams that dissolve at dawn.
And in that hush, they became not seekers, but keepers.
IV. Rain. It came without warning — a soft drizzle, like the lake remembering itself.
Roya tilted her face to the sky, her smile quiet, her eyes reflecting the storm’s mercy.
Lost reached out, not to hold, but to share.
And in that moment, salt met rain, absence met presence, and two wanderers became one story.
Lost
She didn’t speak. She placed her hand on my chest, and I felt the truth of her silence. Not absence—presence. Not mystery—invitation.
Among her kind, words are not the first language. They speak in feeling, in memory, in the quiet certainty of shared breath.
She told me of a bond— not romance, not possession, but resonance. A way to remain near, even when the sea carries her far.
From a pouch at her side, she drew something soft— coral-shaped, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat held in moonlight.
This is our bread, she said, shared only with those we choose— family, friends, soul-bound companions.
The ritual was simple, but sacred: Left hands over each other’s hearts, right hands feeding the bread, while thinking the words: Forever touching untouched.
I asked what it would feel like. She didn’t answer with logic. She answered with memory. Have you ever been in love? Yes. Then it feels like that— but deeper. A joy that lives in the marrow. A presence that never leaves.
We stood in the hush between waves. The storm paused, as if listening.
We placed our hands. We fed each other the bread. It tasted of salt and something older— like the sea’s first breath.
I thought the words: Forever touching untouched.
And in that instant, we were joined. Not by promise, but by truth.
Her thoughts flowed into mine like tide into tide— no edges, no hiding. Only presence.
There is no word for untruth in her language. Because nothing is withheld. Because everything is felt.
She stepped toward the water. The tide curled around her ankles like a whisper. I followed, not to hold her back, but to hold the moment before it became memory.
I placed my hand on her arm. She turned, placed her hand on my chest, and I on hers.
I don’t know if I can bear never seeing you again, I said.
She felt it. She didn’t answer with comfort. She answered with truth.
You will feel me always, she said. In the quiet. In the tide. In the breath between thoughts.
She told me that among her kind, distance does not dissolve connection. Their bonds are not broken by time, only by forgetting.
And I knew— I would not forget.
She stepped into the sea. The water welcomed her, as if it had been waiting. She did not vanish. She became part of the rhythm.
The wind stilled. The sky dimmed to a soft gray, like the hush before a sacred song. The waves slowed, as if listening.
And I stood there, not alone, but whole.
She had not taken my heart. She had made it complete. She had not filled my silence. She had taught it to sing.
This was not love as I had known it. It was a different kind of love— something greater. A communion that lives beyond distance, beyond time, beyond the need for words.
Lost
Upon the shore, where shadows blend,
He writes, a tale he cannot mend.
His voice, a thread spun on the tide,
Revealing love he cannot hide.
She listens close, beyond his gaze,
A phantom born of twilight’s haze.
Her heart, the sunset’s burning hue,
A secret flame he never knew.
The ocean breathes, a steady song,
With his desire to sing along.
For her, the woman of his dreams,
A mystery bathed in golden beams.
He wonders if the stars conspire,
To set his heart on endless fire.
Yet in the veil of clouds' embrace,
She watches with a hidden face.
Each word he speaks, it finds its mark,
A quiet echo in her heart.
And though apart, they stand the same,
Two lives bound by a whispered flame.
The beach grows dim, the stars appear,
But she remains, in silence near.
A fleeting moment, worlds apart,
Bound by the rhythm, of a beating heart.
Lost
Time flows steadily onward, as I stretch toward the horizon, futilely resisting the inevitable tide. The twilight's glow dissolves into the shadow of everything I once cherished. Yet my roots remain steadfast, holding onto spring, who has etched her mark deep within my soul.
Lost
At twilight’s gentle cusp, where day softly surrenders to night,
I wandered on a shore steeped in the secrets of time—
when a solitary bottle, aglow with the pulse of ages,
beckoned from the restless sea.
Inside, a love letter lay in a language unknown,
its ink a tender incantation of forgotten dreams,
each word a shimmering spell cast by a distant soul,
a woman adrift in another time and place.
I, Lost, found it as the waves hummed a lullaby,
a song that stirred my heart to wake in silent wonder.
Though the script eluded my eyes, the verses danced
like whispered promises, flowing effortlessly into my mind.
Her words, a cascade of passion and mystery,
spilled secrets of a love that transcends fleeting moments—
"Farewell until fate draws our souls together again,"
they murmured, as if cradling both sorrow and hope.
In that magic letter, cast adrift on the sea of time,
I felt her presence—a warm, eternal caress—
her laughter lighting the vast darkness, her eyes echoing
the tender glow of a moonlit embrace.
Now, as I roam the endless shores of memory,
her untold verses flow warmly within me,
a ceaseless tide of longing and grace,
binding my heart to the mystery of a love eternal.
In every crashing wave and gentle ripple,
I hear her secret song,
an endless, romantic melody that whispers
of timeless unity, where even lost souls can find a home.
Lost
In a hidden glen where moonbeams softly stray,
Nature divulges secrets kept in silent trust,
A tapestry of whispered wonders glows beneath dusk's hush,
Inviting those who wander to linger in her gentle ballet.
There, amongst the emerald shadows, delicate flowers unfurl
In colors unseen by hurried eyes—each petal
An artifact of devotion from a realm untouched by time,
Their silken textures sharing a clandestine petal’s whisper.
Beneath the canopy of ancient trees, secrets weave
Through the leaves and curling vines that guard
The mystic chambers of her heart, where light and shadow
Dance in tender, unspoken communion.
A carpet of moss, tender as a loved one’s whisper, cradles every footstep
While hidden wildflowers, brushed with dew and longing, bloom
In silent testament to nature’s deep, veiled allure.
Along a winding stream that glitters with midnight sparkles,
Reflections of starlight mingle with my eyes and transport me
into a dream, like secret notes in a song—
Every ripple the echo of a soft confession, every whisper
A quiet promise to the dreamers who pause to hear.
The water, cool and secretive, burbles tales of ancient desire,
Concealing within its depths a romance known only to those
Who dare to dive into its lucid, enchanted flow.
In this haven, the breeze itself seems to carry a lullaby,
Resonating with the heartbeat of the earth, inviting souls
To forget their worldly cares and get lost in the delicate
Mystery of whispering grasses and the sighs of hidden blossoms.
Every leaf, every ray of filtered sunlight, holds a story—
A verse of love penned in silence, kept safe in nature’s secret diary.
And so, Nature—ever the gentle, secret admirer—
Continues to share her hidden beauty quietly,
A realm of wonder reserved for those who cherish genuine tenderness,
Where every moment feels like a stolen glance shared
Between the earth and the heart of anyone willing to sense it.
Lost
In a dark fortress of ancient stones,
I seek refuge from the howling storms—
each weathered rock a steadfast sentinel,
cradling secrets too heavy for the wind to know.
Within these ancient walls, isolation is a cradle,
a sanctuary where vulnerability finds its voice;
here, even every rough edge and hidden crevice
transforms silence into a hallowed echo of memory.
Waves of light, shimmering at the battlefield’s edge,
dance with the sea in a spectral ballet—
their fleeting glow caressing rugged stone,
whispering soft revelations against the dark.
In this interplay of shadow and luminescence,
solitude turns paradoxical—both refuge and crucible;
the fortress shields me, yet its very isolation
beckons a deeper journey into the self.
Each stone now holds more than age-worn scars,
it becomes the keeper of a true and unspoken name—
"Lost," not as absence or despair,
but as the testament of a wandering soul in search of meaning.
The storm outside may rage and beat at the fortress,
but these rugged walls, bathed in the tender light of fleeting hope,
serve as a reminder that even in the midst of chaos,
our hidden truths find safe havens to bloom.
So I stand among these ancient stones,
embracing solitude with open, weathered arms—
for in this silent fortress, the delicate dance of light and sea
reveals that being lost is merely the beginning of discovery.
And in the quiet pulse of the night, where nature and mystery entwine,
I uncover that my solitude is not a void but a warm, secret embrace,
each stone a confidant, every flicker of luminous grace,
a metaphor for life’s eternal promise to shelter and transform.
Lost
‘…the influence of sunless cravings & conceits ultimately lead to the entire mass of suffering…’
Charcoal - 290mm x 136.5mm
See a different presentation layout on Flickrock :-
flickrock.com/59464034@N08/date#/59464034@N08/sets/721577...
On the edge where sea meets sky, the world seemed to exhale. The tide whispered secrets to the shore, and the air was thick with the hush of evening. Two figures walked barefoot on velvet sand, their steps slow, deliberate—not from weariness, but reverence. Between them, fingers intertwined, warmth passed like a quiet promise.
They didn’t speak much. Words had a way of slipping, of missing the mark. But the silence between them wasn’t empty—it bent and shimmered, full of truths too delicate for language. The sun, a golden thread unraveling across the horizon, seemed to pull at the knots inside them, loosening what had long been held tight.
As the tide gave way and stars began to blink awake, something shifted. The rhythm of the waves echoed the rhythm of their hearts—steady, vulnerable, ancient. One of them turned to the other, eyes reflecting the sky’s deepening hues, and smiled—not because everything had been said, but because everything had been felt.
They sat by a small fire, its flame dancing in the breeze, and shared stories not through sentences, but through laughter, through the way their shoulders leaned together, through the way the night wrapped around them like a shared blanket. The ache of past wounds, the joy of being seen, the quiet fight to stay open—it all shimmered in the twilight.
And when the moon rose, casting silver across the waves, they laughed. Not loudly, but with the kind of joy that carries weight. In that moment, one soul reached out to another—not with a plea, but with presence. And the other understood.
If you asked them what love was, they wouldn’t point to words. They’d point to the sea, to the fire, to the hush of evening’s sigh. To the light they cast together into the dark, and the way it came back brighter.
Lost
In the soft light of dawn,
she rises like a gentle breeze,
a kind and caring sky
spreading her tender blue upon the sea.
Each morning, she paints the heavens
with strokes of hope and simple joy,
her colors warm and inviting,
making the world feel safe and new.
The sea listens to her silent song,
each ripple celebrating her gentle kiss,
as night fades into a bright promise,
and every moment whispers of a new day.
High above, she smiles upon the deep,
her essence mirrored on the calm water,
a soft, loving reflection
that fills the sea with a touch of grace.
Every shimmer on the water holds
a trace of her caring hand,
a sign of quiet affection
and a promise written in blue.
In the early hush of morning,
when the world is wrapped in quiet dreams,
her blue hue spreads like a warm embrace,
comforting every heart with its simple light.
Her blue is the gentle song of nature,
a melody that drifts on the breeze,
singing of tender hopes and sweet moments
that dance upon the open sea.
And even when the sun climbs high
and the day unfolds in a flurry of light,
the memory of her blue embrace lingers,
as her reflection fills the heart of the sea.
Lost