I watch your face from the window of the craft that is home to my thoughts.
Your words are the banner of the weather over the stone of your heart. They wave of love or of fear, of passion or apathy.
They harken me like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. Likewise, they forebode two seemingly contradicting concepts. They flash that there is warm sustaining land. Save, it might kill me to reach it if my waters are too temptuous.
Your eyes flash and whirl to emit what is both a warning and a summons. They are a signal of home, be it all but attained.
Turning from my window I consider: this craft has no legs, it has no wheels. It was only ever meant to sail over dark depths. We share the same sky, my own craft and you my lighthouse. Though one’s weather seems to be conceived in the deep below, and the other in the height above.
If we are to acclimate, if we are to find accord, you must build a dock, and I, a bridge to reach it. Only there will we reach the certainty between the deep end, and life or death.