Tensed by the shore

It is not the water that unsettles me,

but the distance that binds us.

The shore holds a brief tremor,

a way of being without advancing.

The body understands first

that not every impulse asks for a fall.

I watch the movement of the waves repeat.

Always the same.

Always different.

There is no decision in this waiting.

Only a minimal tension, almost invisible,

occupying the chest.

To take a step would be to lose the form.

To remain would be the same.

The shore does not choose.

It forms.

And in that form without an answer,

something insists on remaining.