Cicatrice on the Water

Love, they say, is a fortress built high,
But mine trembles like paper, held against sky,
A frail origami boat, scarcely dry,
Set loose on a tide I can't name, nor deny.
No grand declarations carved deep in the stone,
Just the pulse of a silence we've quietly known;
A shared breath that warms where the chill wind has blown,
A shelter of shadows, imperfectly sewn.
It's the tremor that lingers when fingers untie,
The unspoken harbour when storms multiply.
Not a poem completed, but ink on the fly,
A vessel launched knowing it might never reach sky,
Yet trusting the current beneath the vast, sighing
Blue weight of the world, as the slow minutes ply.
It sails without promise of ultimate shore,
But carries the weight it was folded for,
And even if swallowed where dark waters pour,
The shape of the leaving remains evermore,
A cicatrice soft on the sea's shifting floor.

• 25 Jul, 2025
• Wren
• 34 views