As time began to sail across the distance
between the legitimacy of sea-faring tales
and their land-woven origins,
our fingertips became acquinted in the same fluid lucidity
that the soles under our feet interpreted into syncopated steps

Our words melliflously met above the undertones of
cityscape circuit-boards,
embellishing the space between the notes
of our independence
and the harmonies
of our togetherness


She is neither the sea nor the wind, for both are masters of their own trade;
indifferent to the collisions of an unmapped expedition

She is,
as is freedom,
the sail under which the destinations of her vessel
rely solely on the unpredictability
of the collision itself