Shoreline Surrender

The tide beckons, slow and sure,
fingers of foam tracing my skin,
cool whispers stealing breath,
as the night drinks me in.

Bare, I stand where land dissolves,
salt teasing where fire once burned,
the waves kneel, then rise again,
a rhythm my body has learned.

The wind curls, a phantom touch,
lifting strands like hands once bold,
each shiver a silent confession,
each gasp a story untold.

The moon spills silver on my curves,
a worshiper lost in the sight,
while the sea carves secret paths,
pulling me deeper into the night.

I arch as the tide claims more,
its hands relentless, seeking, slow,
sinking into the shifting sand,
letting go… letting go.

The tide surges, pulling tight,
a whisper turning into fire,
waves that beckon, hold me still,
then drag me deeper, ever higher.

Each crest lingers, slow and sweet,
a hush before the breaking deep,
muscles trembling, breath unchained,
a rise too steep, too wild to keep.

The rush, the flood, the shattering peak,
a crash of light, of molten sighs,
my body bows, undone, consumed,
a storm that drowns, that burns, that flies.

But still, the sea is not yet done,
it calls me back, relentless, bold,
a second crest, a third, then more,
each wave more fierce, more uncontrolled.

I gasp, I cry, I fall, I rise,
each tremor breaking, stealing air,
the undertow of aching bliss,
a tide that leaves me raw, laid bare.

Spent at last, my breath returns,
adrift in warmth, the storm now past,
the sea recedes, but leaves its mark,
a wave within, too vast to last.