Salt Bath

A part of me shut down that morning and never turned back on. The world became a place I didn’t want to be and the water became a place I didn’t want to leave, because that was our place. 

It is our place.

“Salt water burns, but it’s good for you,” you used to tell me, and it quickly became my cure for everything. 

So I let the ocean heal me and convince myself that you’re there watching me from the shore, making sure I always come back home. But you’re not there, you never are anymore. And in those moments going home feels harder than letting myself float. Letting myself drift. Letting myself drown. 

Every year I remember you less and miss you more. When you died everyone told me time heals all wounds, but all time does is steal my memories and leave blurry mysteries behind. All time does is leave me wanting more days with you.

I return to the ocean when I remember you the least and miss you the most, and leave my clothes beside the rock where I know you’ll keep a close eye on them, and enter the ocean’s silky embrace. I bathe in salt, in tears from the sky.