I love you
like a harbor keeps its lantern lit
for a ship that cannot promise return;
but the dark is merciless
and I cannot bear
the thought of you alone in it.
You are water-bound,
horizon-minded,
carrying old storms in your hull
that still creak when the wind shifts.
I am fixed in stone.
Brick and salt and quiet flame.
I do not chase tides.
I cannot command the wind.
I can only burn.
Somewhere along our crossings
light became a fire –
with a brightness that devours,
and a warmth that traps,
leading you back to wreckage.
So when my lantern cuts the fog,
you turn your bow away.
You call it danger.
This is your survival.
You do not see
how carefully I try to shield the wick from wind,
how I lower the glow when storms roll in,
how I want to build a flame to guide,
not consume.
Some nights I imagine your silhouette
hesitating beyond the breakwater,
torn between anchor and open sea.
Other nights
the horizon stays empty,
and the silence feels intentional.
Still, I trim the wick.
Still, I tend the glow.
My love does not flicker from your fear.
It does not harden into smoke.
I pray it becomes a light
you dare to trust
even just one more time.
Until then, it stays.
And that is what frightens me.
Because I do not know
if you will ever believe
that this light is harbor,
not wildfire.
I do not know
if waiting will make me a refuge
or a ruin.
But I will be here.
Not chasing.
Not dimming.
Not turning to ash.
Just burning –
steady and visible
afraid
the sea may never choose
to come home.
