Candlelight and a late ferry song

A scratched vinyl of Fela's evening groove kept the harbor's glass awake while bergamot steam braided with salt air. On the window seat, fingers untied the scarf I've been saving for small rebellions; the inbound ferry's light drew a thin path across the map of my palm.

I wrote a short letter, folded like a boat, to the man whose stories arrive in late-night shipments and to the woman who laughs like a lighthouse lamp. Translation can wait until morning—tonight the tides answer in rhyme, and the harbor wind reads my margins back to me.