Frail, faint images of what once was and might have been,
are painted in front of me.
My eyes lingering,
fingering for a rock to steady my loose hold.
Torn apart when tide turned into flow
and I now know
that what was will never be again.
And as quickly as I ran,
those ghosts are haunting me and I’m still serving as their host.

I escaped almost
but the story of brokenness as my tenderness shattered
won’t stop like everything did
when my feelings froze;
shocked dead
by the cold hold of an almost living hand,
of washed away sand
in my memory still vivid
and then the slow return of the detested liquid.

My hand is holding yours
as death and destruction
like a turmoiled ocean come crashing down,
turning my hearty laughter into a frown.
WE had nothing yet my head was still holding a crown.
A crown of joy, hope and happiness,
washed away leaving a whole lot of emptiness.

Those ghosts of fainted memories draw a picture in my head of what could have been,
if only that dreaded ocean night
would have warned me with a thundering light,
that nothing will ever be the same.

My today still circles around that moment
of my hand holding your almost living one.
Feeling the cold seep in and the warmth
making place for it.
That moment when crowns became tear-filled frowns
and my happiness a mere memory of what once was.

My heart is still filled with those images, I can’t get out.
Ghosts running after me, even though I run.
Trying so desperately to find the sun.
Searching my future in the past,
mixing some sweetness into that salty water that changed my life forever.
Deciding to never look back again,
as I began to shut out those images,
trying to see the beauty in black and white.
Trying to see the future in my hand.
Trying to forget your hand in my hand,
but sometimes like lost melodies, those ghosts appear again.
Even though I ran, sprinted even,
waited for someone
to make that cold hand warm again.
Waited to see my frozen heart turn into water, a part of the ocean I dreaded.

But those frail images of what could have been
are trailing behind me and are still not seen.
I am so keen on forgetting,
on letting it all go,
that I even try to shut out those memories
of long forgotten, beautiful melodies;
of shelves filled with pictures,
images of us before your hand was colder than mine.
Memories of hearts bursting of love
and peace sinking into the deepest part of my soul,
longing to fulfil our call.
Because every time I look at these, the ghosts of other memories are just a thought away.

Images are powerful and yet I seek to find a way to distinguish them.
Out of fear or mere anxiety.
I’m fighting against ghosts that are stronger than me,
against darkness that the light has never seen.
But I am too weak and I begin to sink
as frail, fainted images of a hand almost living
and an ocean almost turned sweet by your last words,
begin to sink in and it hurts.
But it prevents me from drowning,
because of the memories I try to forget I am standing here,
the ghosts have found me and instead of imprisoning me,
these memories have set me free.

Faint, brighter images are visible at the edge of the earth
at the horizon of my own little world.
And I know that hope was never lost,
even though it is not a crown anymore.
A little diamond out of the beautiful diadem I wore,
wasn’t swept away by salty tears and dark fears
but it was there, where I last expected it.

It was in the wet sand,
in the memory of your almost living hand.
And I pick it up, your last gift.
The gift of hope that will carry me
when I turn around and walk,
away from sandy shores and towards the future hoards,
still hidden behind high boards
but I’m walking hoping on the Lord.