He stands at the edge,
where the tide forgets the shore,
where silence is an answer
but never a comfort.

His voice is a clenched fist,
striking the air,
fighting with ghosts
that call him by name.

A silver fish drifts
through darkened waters,
but he is not the fish.
He is the stone,
a weight in the deep.

Like the current,
he undoes the problems,
taking away the pain.
I love his mischievous eyes,
the way they catch light,
the way they catch me.

Somewhere between the sky and the sea,
between strength and surrender,
your hands—useful, steady—
unravel the knots,
find the spaces between words,
and press them into me.
We were made for each other.