The Jigsaw Ocean

The Jigsaw Ocean

The ocean came to me in pieces,

scattered like thoughts I could not gather,

each wave a fragment of something broken,

each tide a pull I could not resist.

I stood where the shore forgot its shape,

where water met land in restless grief,

and I tried to fit it all together,

this endless puzzle of salt and silence.

The sea did not answer my questions,

it only breathed against my skin,

a rhythm that felt almost human,

yet carried a loneliness too vast to name.

There were colours hidden beneath its skin,

blues that bled into darker truths,

greys that whispered of storms unspoken,

and depths that swallowed every light.

I reached for a piece of its sorrow,

a single wave that broke at my feet,

it slipped through my trembling fingers,

as if it was never mine to hold.

The ocean does not belong to anyone,

it is a story that refuses an ending,

a puzzle that grows with every attempt,

to understand what cannot be known.

I saw reflections that were not my own,

faces drifting beneath the surface,

eyes that watched without blinking,

as if waiting for me to join them.

And for a moment I almost did,

almost let the tide take my name,

almost became another lost piece,

within that vast and shifting whole.

But something held me at the edge,

a quiet voice that would not break,

reminding me that I am not the sea,

though I carry its storms inside me.

So I left the jigsaw ocean unfinished,

its pieces scattered across my mind,

knowing some things are not meant to fit,

and some depths are better left untouched.

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