I stand at the edge of a sea that keeps taking names and returning ghosts.
Some people build walls against the tide. I keep walking into it.
Every current carries a different wound. Splintered hulls. Waterlogged prayers. Stories stitched together with old scars. I gather them like treasures pulled from the deep, holding them to the light, tracing every crack as if understanding it might make it whole.
Maybe thatās what draws me back. Not the promise of calm water, but the storm itself. The collision. The ache. The brief warmth of finding another soul drifting through the dark and believing, for a moment, that neither of us has to drown alone.
Love has always felt less like a choice and more like a gravity. It pulls at everything. Strangers. Lovers. Passing faces. Entire lives I will never live. I feel them all pressing against my ribs.
The same hand that offers shelter also leaves splinters beneath the skin.
There are days I think peace must exist somewhere beyond the tide. A quiet shore untouched by longing. No hunger. No loss. No waiting. But every version of that peace feels empty. A room with no windows. Air that never moves.
For a few minutes, a voice pours itself through a speaker and suddenly every buried thing has a language. Every wound becomes visible. Every ghost sits beside me. Nothing feels distant. Nothing feels imagined.
I love too much for my own good.
I love what breaks people. I love what survives them.
Because while part of me reaches for everyone, another part is always staring toward the next horizon, searching for another lighthouse in the fog.
I tell myself Iām looking for home.
But sometimes I wonder if Iām only in love with the sea.
amandla
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
