The tide rose between us,
not as a wall but a breath—
salt‑heavy, unfinished,
like a sentence cut short.
Your mouth leaned forward,
mine leaned back,
and the air between
became a circle we almost closed.
Above us, constellations
shifted their shoulders,
stars rearranging
into a pattern we never named.
The kiss remains—
not absence, not presence,
but a shadow tide
that returns each night,
closing and unclosing,
closing and unclosing.
.