Until The Man Went Quiet

The man’s throat was sore, aching from the pull of sobs which threatened to take over at any moment.

Renegade tears ran down his cheeks, slicing into the nets of the sea-kissed moisture dotting his flesh. His vision was blurred, though it was already difficult enough to peer through the evening’s autumnal gloom.

Cold, gray waves carefully broke around and against him, the sea and sand sucked him deeper into the shore.  Soft surfs continued to caress the man’s chest, his arms, sometimes catching the back of his neck with its foamy crash.  Such compassion gave fuel to the man’s grief, his body shook with cries.

Somewhere, far and deep, a pull and push eddied.  A sigh spilled, a heart broke.  A monster moaned, unable to comfort her lover any longer.  She’d loved him from the first moment he’d waded into her swell, all those years ago.

He loved her too.

He’d swim and sink his toes into her soft sands, she was warm and he was safe.  The days when the man and the sea were separate were very few and far between.  Even when the days began to darken earlier, and the ground and grasses froze, the man would search the coast for a ripple to visit, to remember.

The waves she sent from her immeasurable depths were veined and heavy with longing and sorrow, but she knew.  And he knew.

And his village knew.

The sea gushed and grasped the man against her bank.  From her core emanated a vibration, a howl.  The man and the sea wept and wept until the man went under.  Until the man went quiet.

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