Cartography of Light

At the edge of town, the tide writes in salt cursive, roads dissolving into the blue as if they were only sketches. We learn the grammar of wavering horizons, how a lighthouse keeps time with its slow inhale.

A gull stitches the morning with a needle of sound, and the sun unrolls its vellum over wet stones. I trace a coastline with my fingertip, feeling the rough edits of wind.

Your name is a harbor lantern between my ribs, a small steady burn where the fog loosens. Even the currents pause to listen, pulling a long silver thread toward shore.

By noon the map has changed again, the water revising every border it touches. I fold the day into my pocket, keeping only what glows.