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too far to touch

The sea still remembers the shape of her. Nights like this, the shore feels like a place she has only just left, the air still warm with her absence. She would sit with her knees drawn close, hair falling over her shoulder, looking at the water as if it were saying something only she could hear. The waves would pull in and slip away, and somehow it felt like they were breathing with her, like the whole coast existed just to cradle that quiet. Now the tide moves on without her, a steady rhythm that does not care who is missing. The rocks are colder, the water darker, and the spot where she used to sit is just a silhouette carved into memory. Missing her is like standing at the edge of the sea at night—everything familiar, yet unbearably distant. She is somewhere behind the horizon of this picture, close enough to see in the mind, too far to touch in the world.