My hands are cold from want and salt-heavy air.

The sails are gray like soggy wool against the purple night.

The wind smells of possibility but tastes of regret

And I can only mutter,

"It reminds me of her. It reminds me of home."

My heart is a compass.

You are North.

Be a lighthouse and I will turn my wheel towards you.

I. Am. Not. So. Far. Away...