Walking in the Sea

A man once walked into the sea

and did not drown—

for he believed it wasn’t water,

but memory.

 

He waded in like stepping through

an old, undeveloped photograph;

each wave a shutter click,

each splash the sting

of something long unspoken.

 

The salt did not blind him—

it scalded his conscience.

Deeper still,

the water cleared.

He saw not escape,

but return

by a stranger door.

 

The sea does not forget.

It waits—

patiently,

like remorse.

 

We name memory a private thing,

but perhaps it is not ours.

Perhaps it is

geological,

layered,

seismic.

 

To remember is to disturb

something older

than what lies beneath.

To forget

is not to lose—

but to bury.

 

And so, he trod lightly.

Each step he took

pressed across

his own

grave.