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.