Ours was no courtly harbor,
no silk-sheeted sail—
but a reef full of teeth
and a vow made in gale.

She spoke in glyphs,
I answered in rust,
tongues tangled in seaweed,
our compass: mistrust.

We danced on the spine of a kraken’s grave,
sipped sun-rot wine, sang savage and brave.
Love wore an anchor and kissed like a flare—
then dragged us both down without breath or prayer.

Her laughter cracked hulls,
my longing broke clocks,
we lit fires in kelp beds
and slept inside shocks.

No chapel, no chart—just marrow and myth,
just barnacled kisses, and salt on our pith.
The gods turned away—too mortal, too loud—
so we crowned each other in stormcloud and shroud.

Now I drift with her shadow stitched under my skin,
a map inked in bruises, a dirge for our sin.
If you hear a hymn bleeding through kelp and decay,
it’s us, still singing—uncharted, unloved—
in the bowels of the bay.