Between two shores I stand, where tides debate,

A quiet border drawn by wind and will,

One calls with dreams that shimmer, vast and great,

The other holds a past that lingers still.

The waves repeat the stories I once knew,

Of footprints fading softly in the sand,

Yet distant lights reveal a different view,

A future shaped by an uncertain hand.

The current pulls with questions left unspoken,

Of what to keep and what to cast away,

Each crest a vow, each trough a promise broken,

A restless heart that neither side can stay.

And so I walk the line where waters meet,

Not bound to either shore I’ve ever known,

For in between, my soul becomes complete—

A place where both, and neither, can be home.

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In quiet corners where memories fray,

A thousand fragments drift away,

Like photographs with edges torn,

Of moments lived, now overborne.

The colors fade from what once shone bright,

Soft echoes swallowed by endless night,

Each piece misplaced, yet softly remains,

In whispered thoughts and silent refrains.

A face half-formed in the mind’s retreat,

Familiar shadows we cannot meet,

They linger still in blurred design,

A fading echo of space and time.

Yet in this loss, a strange art appears,

A mosaic shaped by absent years,

For what is gone still leaves a trace—

A haunting, beautiful, empty space.

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Before my thoughts can gather into name,

the soil has traced the story of my feet;

it knows the weight I carry, where I came,

and folds my wandering back into its beat.

The wind repeats what silence cannot keep,

in dialects of dust and bending grain;

it reads the vows I buried far too deep,

and lifts them gently, whispering again.

Each stone records the hours I never claimed,

the paths I left unwalked, yet still were mine;

in roots and rivers, nothing goes unnamed—

time writes in earth a more enduring line.

So when I pause, unsure of who I’ve been,

the land speaks first, in truths both old and true:

you were always written here, within—

the land remembers, long before you do.

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