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She is the water, vast and still, yet never silent. A breath of sky lingers on her surface, folding into ripples that do not know where they began.
The air hums, soft and waiting, as masts tilt like restless hands aching for a breeze. Autumn has set fire to the trees, but the water does not burn— it only holds their reflection, keeps them where they cannot be.
She is both the dock and the distance, anchored and untouchable. She is the hush before sails unfurl, the space between reaching and restraint, the certainty that there is no storm— only the ache of wanting one.
And though she does not call, the heart is a boat that drifts toward her, again and again, drawn without reason, without return.
