Lighthouse

Lighthouse

I stood still, even when the sea begged me to drift away.

They said she wandered—

feet bare, heart wide open,

collecting storms in mason jars

and bottling moonlight for rainy days.

They didn’t see her anchor break,

or how her tides began to turn.

She called my name

like it was a prayer,

each syllable

salt-soaked and splintered

by winds that never stopped howling.

I was not strong.

Not a savior.

Just a flicker

in the fog.

But I stayed lit.

When she forgot her name,

I whispered it into the sky.

When the night swallowed her whole,

I carved constellations

out of every cracked piece of myself.

Not to guide her back—

she never left on purpose—

but so she'd know

she was never lost.

She never saw me waver.

Even when I shook.

Even when the sea kissed my ankles

and begged me to fall in love with the current.

Love doesn’t always look like rescue.

Sometimes, it’s standing

on a cliff of jagged rock

and choosing to burn,

every single night,

so someone else

can find their way home.