I run the shallows, the final edge of an ocean of crumpled lace.
Curve in, curve out, slow as a sleeping breath, transparency made visible by neat white stitches at the rim. A final gesture to hem the seam.
This is the lull, a fading back to stillness. The new moon pulls this tide close, keeps it to herself.
And then the rush begins, and she turns like a sigh she's kept in all night and the push rolls up the beach like an ozone kiss, wet beside your ear. Seaweed and sand suddenly scent the rise of air. You'll find them tomorrow on your sheets, though you knew you washed them all away.