Low Tide
Low Tide
It’s been years now, but I still remember the shape of your goodbye.
No words at all.. there weren’t any.. really.. but the stillness that came after. The silence that stretched across the distance like an ocean, wide and impossible. Sometimes I wonder if you felt it too, that quiet unraveling between us.. or if I was the only one who noticed the tide pulling you away long before you left.
I still go to that café we both loved.
They changed the chairs. Repainted the walls. But the window’s the same. The light still slants the way it used to and when it rains, the glass fogs over just enough for me to pretend you might still be sitting there. I almost see your head tilted, eyes lost in some faraway thought, fingers smudged with graphite.
I kept your sketches in a wooden box, but I haven’t opened it in a long time. They started to feel too loud. Like echoes in a room I’ve tried to leave. But some nights… I swear I can feel the paper between my fingers again. Rough. Real. Yours.
You never told me why you drifted. Maybe you didn’t know either. Maybe love isn’t always a storm, it’s a slow leak in a boat we thought would float forever.
I loved you, more than I admitted. More than I was ready to. It was the kind of love that crept in gently, like morning light over a calm sea. When it left, it took pieces of me I didn’t know I’d given away.
There’s a part of me that still writes letters I’ll never send. I fold them like paper boats and let them go with the waves, hoping they’ll find you wherever you are. Hoping they’ll tell you all the things I never could say out loud:
That I would’ve waited.
That I still dream about the warmth of your coffee smile.
That I don’t believe in forever anymore, but I believed in us.
And maybe that’s enough.
Even if your name is a ghost now. Even if your voice has become a song I only half remember. Even if I’m the only one still carrying what we had…
I’ll keep coming back to this café by the sea.
Because some loves never end.
They just become part of the tide.
