Currents.

There are waves under the waves,
ripples to caress calf and thigh,
Transactions and influencers.
From the copter you're more shadow than shark,
the reassurance drifting,
a sand into sunburnt eyes.

Our half step, the sink,
was always the reminder
of infinity below, 
a floorless treadmill of ambition.
Each step became a blunt resignation of getting through
headhung and blindered
to the end of dune or peak,
as behind, valleys trickle-filled themselves.

The sand wants you,
its seduction of crumbs
a soft slyness to draw you down
sub surface
to where shells refill with ghosts
and your skin becomes unkissable.

These currents,
the fresh, the unturned,
I'm listening for their wisdom,
but hearing only
that silver hiss,
the drawdown grappling
of sea stealing back
our little courages, our tomorrow desires.