When I cannot sleep, I lie awake,
watching the dark press against the ceiling.
My mind wanders in quiet circles,
half-remembered dreams brushing against me,
and you are always there, somewhere,
the thought I cannot let go.

I imagine the sea crashing against stone,
our house perched on the edge like a quiet defiance, there are gargoyles on the roof, their faces grim but protective, as if they know what it means to love and lose and return.

Crows circle above the yard, black as storm clouds. I watch them and think how love is like that:
untamed, restless, urgent,
returning always to the one it knows.

I dream of the manor we once joked about,
the one I trace with my mind’s fingers. The one with chambers and quarters we can retire to, a manor with luxurious but surely uncomfortable— red velvet antique armchairs. There is a balcony for you to smoke cigarettes on, overlooking the sea. The smell of home-cooked meals is rich, and the sound of laughter drifts through open windows on a crisp autumn breeze.

But even before these walls exist in my mind, before the tide shapes stone into refuge—
I know that I would be happy anywhere with you, because home is not a location on a map, it is the feeling of your arms around me.

Inside, the walls are tastefully painted black, and the gray stone accents have been placed perfectly; everywhere you wanted them to be. My library is painted Vermont green and smells of old paper, of ink and smoke and something older I cannot name.

In the evenings, I would curl beside you near the fireplace. I long to see you relax, to close your eyes and let the worry slip out of your mind for even a moment.

I imagine this scene vividly, we are lounging on a plush sofa, and your breathing is slow and steady. In my hands is an old book, its binding worn down by the years, but still holding strong.
Your shoulder is warm, a steady weight against mine, and I read aloud because the words feel holy when they escape my lips to reach you.

Outside, a storm would beat against our windows, but here, in thought, warmth rises from us.
We are happy.
We are still in love.
The red thread holds, has never frayed,
and I trace it in my mind as I watch you—
as if the world could unravel
and still, we would remain.