I have charted kingdoms no man could name, sailed beneath stars older than any king, where the sea kept her own counsel and the wind spoke only to those willing to lose themselves.

Yet every league I stole from the horizon led me farther from the only country my heart had ever known.

For you were never merely a woman.

You were the coastline God forgot to place upon His maps.

Had I but one quiet evening and your willing heart beside mine, I would lay my weathered hand upon your back and map the rolling valley that runs gently down its middle, as carefully as I once traced the rivers of forgotten lands.

I would follow the gentle sloping of your hips, where every curve bends like a sheltered bay welcoming a weary vessel home.

My compass would lose its purpose beneath the graceful rise of your breasts, for no North Star ever guided me half so faithfully as the promise found there.

The sea taught me that every tide returns.

Yet I have crossed enough oceans to know that not every sailor does.

Some are claimed by storms, by silence, or by the ache of loving a shore they may never touch again.

So if these words should find you long after my ship has become another tale told in crowded taverns,

know this—

Every dawn I greeted borrowed its light from the memory of your smile.

Every wave that struck my hull whispered your name in a language only lonely men understand.

And every night, beneath a sky embroidered with countless stars, I searched not for new worlds,

but for the impossible hope that somewhere beyond the mist,

you stood waiting,

your dress stirred by the salt wind,

watching the horizon with the same quiet longing,

until at last you saw a single weathered sail rise from the sea,

coming home

to the only harbor

it had ever loved.