Every crevice of this
city has folded the smell
of the sea and stored it
deep inside its pockets.
The minute you enter,
your nostrils reluctantly
submit to the overpowering
freshness of the ceaselessly
indecisive waves and your
skin begins to itch for their
salty dryness to carve their
stories in your palms and feet
with white. The song of blue
crashing waves beckons your
soul to step in the shifting wet
sands and bring yourself to
rest amidst the Nature’s most
active expression of its perpetual
restlessness. A fragment of some
purple shell nestles uncomfortably
in the gap between your toes,
resisting the ebbing water’s
seamless flow. You pick it up
and try to marvel its hue in dying
sunlight as a professional nature
lover would in a moment so picturesque.
And before you know it, the shell
fragment cuts into your finger,
unnervingly deep. Your rusty blood
drops dissolve in the shimmering
waves too quickly. The cut stings,
you reflexively dip your fingers
in the incoming wave. But that stings
more deeply. So, you pull it out and
Put it in your mouth, trying to
stopper the bleeding by rubbing
your warm tongue over the salty wound.

With vows of blood and salt,
you tether your soul to the sea’s
in ways
unknown. You belong
to the gushing chorus of rushing
waves. With every ebb you are
obliterated, and every tide is your
rejuvenation. Beware of Calypso,
the conniving concealer, who is now
possession of your unsuspecting soul. 

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