Tideglass

There was a time
 when I mistook the pull of the tide
 for an invitation. You stood still,
 like a lighthouse with no light
 and I,
 a ship trying to read
 the silence in your stones. I poured myself
 into the shape of your absence,
 hoping you would notice
 the way I shimmered
 even as I disappeared. But some hands
 were never meant to hold.
 Some roots
 refuse the rain. So I step back now,
 not with rage,
 but like dusk—
 soft,
 certain,
 and no longer waiting
 for the sun to notice
 it has already set.