just talking to myself

now that you’ve broken through the glass,
shattered your soul-boundaries into
thousands of rough edges
and seen the ocean waiting on the other side,
breathing feels here so borrowed,
a heavy wet nostalgia and
mildew on skin that bruises too easily.

put your small hand in mine and unwrinkle your forehead;
the tide may be coming in but
we can still build castles out of the sand
that remains.