La Muse et le Poète

The Tide

I stand far from the tide. Morning has barely broken, and already people gather, drawn to the edge of the sea as if it promises them something. Laughter, footsteps, flashes of cameras — all of it spills across the sand, but I stay distant. Just out of reach. I don't move.

The tide never reaches me.

The sun climbs, hours pass, the heat sets in. The water plays with others, brushing ankles and filling footprints, but never mine. Still, I wait — still, I watch.

I remain exactly where I stood.

And then night comes. The crowd thins, then disappears entirely. Voices quiet. Sand cools. And finally, in the hush of it all, the tide finds its way to me. Just barely — a soft, warm touch to the tips of my toes. It's been collecting heat all day, and for one brief, still moment, I let go. I let it in. I feel it. And then it's gone again, pulled gently back as if it never meant to come at all.

But it returns.

Not warm this time, but cooler. Almost shy. Then again — cooler still. Each wave touches, then leaves, like it's beginning to forget me. Like it can't decide whether to reach or retreat. The tide goes on like this, each visit more distant, more uncertain.

Until dawn.

And with it, a quiet kind of ending. The sun rises, the world awakens, and just like that — I no longer have the right to stand here and ache for it. I am expected to move. To let go. To act like I never waited.

But I did.