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Wood Worn Smooth

roaring, reaching    
moon-drenched waves  
~I can still hear them~    
    
my salt-tipped lips    
crowding each other    
in contemplation;    
acid washed,    
crossed legs    
already awkward -    
just shy (of) sixteen;    
entirely too wise    
for my age,    
a chiliad of lives    
have passed    
right through me    
   
or at least    
it feels that way    
   
the lifeguard station    
abandoned at dusk,    
aged baby blue;    
wood worn smooth    
by proxy    
of countless tides -    
though they never dared,    
save by rage    
of autumn storms,    
to come close enough    
to lay hands    
on its surface    
   
even then,    
but a few moments    
into my journey,    
I completely understand
Author's Note
Written for the Word of the Day thread 💜
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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