Last of the Ascencion (Verse) - 5

Salt

He scanned the highway—
motion where stillness would have been easier.

His toes pressed against the edge of sand—
the ocean already speaking to him.

Salt called—
not as invitation, but as memory.

But the day gathered itself—
voices, bodies, heat approaching noon.

Life moved toward the shore—
and he chose, again, not to follow.

He raised a hand to passing cars—
a gesture he no longer needed.

They slowed for him—
mistaking him for ordinary.

Crossing took longer than it should—
long enough for something to return.

Loss—
not sudden, just patient.

There had been a time—
when movement required no permission.

He had passed between places—
without being held by them.

No streets. No waiting.
No asking to cross.

The mala had once rested at his throat—
alive with something like power.

Now it struck softly at his side—
sound without answer.

A relic—
of something that had not left him,

only withdrawn.

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