Ghosts
I walk a shoreline of ghosts, where the sea keeps returning what I thought I had lost. The waves scatter fragmentsβ a name, a memory, pale as sea mist; the faint outline of a life I no longer belong to. Everything here is half-remembered, softened by salt and distance, yet still capable of aching. I wander the waterβs edge, gathering nothing, keeping nothing. Some things are meant to remain out beyond the breakers, where the tide can claim them and the living can move on.
Written for my prompt βa shoreline of ghostsβ.
Jo xo
A life that once was.
I sometimes think shorelines wear ghosts of the past. Not something precise, not something we can hold within reach - only the trace of what we were before the world learned our names.