If Only the Sea Could Love a Star

A beam of light—

a golden breath,

a whisper of want,

a slip of gold

skimming across the water.

Apollo leans in,

trembling softly,

fingers outstretched

to light Thalassa’s

glass-like skin.

The primordial sea shivers,

curves upward toward the sky—

memories stirred:

not of storms or sunrises,

but of a time before time,

when the gods knew no names.

Now—

a young warrior whispers

where titans once roared,

his warm light a question

echoing within

the ocean’s darkened heart.

So close, so fleeting—

his voice now fractures

Along the long-forgotten ripples

of her restless, broken heart.

A hush. Then:

a soft exhale from her lips—

like a breath held too long—

spills forward:

light splintering —

not enough to break the surface—

just enough to shimmer along her skin

illuminating everything once again.

Sun and tide,

briefly aligned,

stirring an ancient rhythm:

the push, the pull,

the ache.

Two fundamental elements,

drawn together,

and constantly separated

by the horizon’s interference.

So when they are parted once again—

as they must always be—

each is transformed

each is left aching.

Leaving behind a part of themselves,

A trace of what was,

a tremor of what could be.

If only the sea could learn

to love a younger

shining

star.