She moves, a hymn sung in waves.
I stay, a hymn held in stillness.
She pours herself into every crevice,
pulls mountains smooth with her patience.
I am grit—compressed and wide-armed,
bearing the weight of trees, homes, time.
She nourishes the tender roots beneath me,
dances in loops, making the earth softer.
And when her reach recedes, I crumble.
My cracks run deep, aching for her touch.
I blister under the sun’s hollow gaze,
while she carries clouds too far away.
When she returns, she is apology.
I drink her in until I am whole.
And yet, she is not mine, nor am hers.
We belong only to this endless rhythm.