Ocean flews—
the loose blue lips of the world,
where water exhales its secrets
and the horizon listens.

They move without hurry,
folds of salt and shadow,
speaking a language older than maps,
older than fear.

In those flews,
storms are born as whispers,
dreams dissolve into foam,
and forgotten names
are rocked back into sound.

Waves press forward,
then retreat—
not weakness,
but breath.
Not surrender,
but knowing when to return.

The ocean flews remember everything:
ships that trusted too much,
hands that reached and let go,
moons that pulled too hard
on tender tides.

Yet still they open,
again and again,
welcoming light,
welcoming loss,
welcoming the endless attempt
of land to understand water.

If you listen closely,
standing where sand meets motion,
you can hear it—
the sea practicing speech,
saying come,
saying leave,
saying nothing at all
and meaning it deeply.