Last of the Ascension (Verse) - 18
Entangled
Above—
the café remains—
wood, salt, time-worn edges.
Two presences—
long entangled.
Both held here—
for different reasons.
He calls it solace.
She calls it memory.
Neither is wrong.
Neither is free.
Sand crossed into the sidewalk—
as if the ocean refused boundaries.
His steps slowed—
lightness no longer following him.
He adjusted himself—
as if posture could restore certainty.
Shirt pulled straight.
Shoulders aligned.
Face composed.
A ritual—
performed too late.
His hand found the door—
paint worn by other arrivals.
He hesitated—
just long enough to feel it.
Then—
he entered.
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