Where the Horizon Turns

You were standing at the edge,
barefoot on a beach that might have once been safe.
The sky, clear moments before, began to cloud —
not in streaks, but in a quiet collapse.
A deepening.
A forgetting of light.

You told her it was time to leave.
But your voice felt small against the air,
like chalk on wet stone.
She moved first —
with the certainty of someone
who knew the way out
or didn’t need one.

You followed, but the sea had shifted.

The waves broke too near,
as though they knew your name.
Not anger — something older.
A slow remembering.

You turned from the water,
but it kept pace with you,
licking at your heels
like a dog that had once been god.

The sand was soft and slow.
Each step sunk deeper.
Salt clung to your ribs.
Wind curled around your ankles
like fever longing for form.

Ahead, she reached the top of the dune.
Her shape, backlit —
not silhouette,
but threshold.

You scrambled after her,
aware that the moment of being taken
was still possible.
A wave could lift you
into some ecstatic unmaking.
But it didn’t.
You slipped free.

Just.

And behind you —
a hush,
like something sacred had paused
but not ended.

---

Notitia | attending to the hush that follows the unspoken tide
A page from the Book of Glamorous Unbecoming