(Maldives)
Today my pencil dipped straight into blue.
Not ink—water.
The page rippled softly,
and Malé rose like an island secret.
Houses stacked in colors of candy,
boats bobbing like toys,
and the ocean stretching everywhere,
as if the world had been drawn in waves.
My pencil twirled,
and suddenly I saw the Friday Mosque—
its walls carved of coral stone,
whispering stories from the sea itself.
I traced its lines slowly,
feeling as if I was holding
a piece of the ocean’s memory.
When I signed the page,
a spray of salt seemed to leap out,
and I laughed—
sometimes the sea doesn’t stay on the paper.
✨ If your pencil touched the sea, what memory would it sketch first?
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