I am the wind’s quiet rebellion,

a sovereign force wrapped in salt spray and intuition,

moving along edges where maps forget to breathe.

My home, a sanctuary on wheels,

traces the contours of cliffs and the pull of the Pacific’s whisper.

I wake with the lighthouses—

their beams cutting truths into the dark,

my truths, sharp as sea glass

but held gently in the palm of the present.

I speak to That Thing,

the one with no name,

the one that churns inside the waves and the void of my chest,

both wild and constant—

both teacher and terrain.

I carry storms in my pocket,

their gusts tearing through yesterday’s doubts,

their rain washing my fears into fertile ground.

And if I find myself broken down on the 101,

it will be a baptism in asphalt and ocean spray,

another chapter where the wind and I rewrite the rules.

Yes, I long for another sovereign soul,

a man with eyes like embers,

who laughs at chaos but holds it tenderly.

Someone who sees me not as a tangle to untie

but a current to dive into.

We’d carry storms together,

building lighthouses in the spaces between us.

Until then, I’ll wander.

Each step a communion,

each gust a guide,

each unmarked cove a mirror.

I am not afraid of the dark,

only of forgetting how to love it.