already now

traces leak from the edges—
red dissolves to white
without the soft mercy of pink.

I dreamt someone
long ago
would cup the sea in their hands,
keep the colors from spilling,
keep the breathing ones
safe beneath the blue.

but the chorus is the same:
too late.

don’t go
not before you feel the tide
turn in your own lungs.
don’t go
not before you know
this standing,
this silence,
is borrowed.

once,
we remembered to leave
the comb half sweet for bees.

now,
the line frays
we carry,
we spill,
we trade our shadows with the coral
and call it love.

photosnap by Shivani Makoa Muthoo

words by Shiori Ota