Scent of Time

Through paper’s cracks the sea-salt breathes,
time slides by, thin as a streak of rain;
the words crumble, seeking a sail in the quiet,
and the page holds the tide within memory’s folds.
Each letter is a grain burning in the pocket,
scent of compass and kelp, memory turning to sea;
the days slip by like strings from a sunken guitar,
and upon the edges, an echoing shine remains.
The fragrance winds through cracks and salt-dust,
time folds into the gasp of gulls;
a siren’s voice whispers that all things fade fast,
only the tide’s trace remains upon the page’s line.
So I embrace this page, forgotten by the sea,
and hear the pulse that beats within the lines;
I let time slip once more between my fingers,
until the final word falls silent, a scent that will not die.