Harbor wind and a borrowed song

Window seat warmed by yesterday’s sun; a candle breathes lemon and smoke, and an old Igbo lullaby loops while bergamot tea steams on the windowsill. A freighter angled at the harbor’s mouth like a sentence rearranging itself — translation, I keep thinking, is that patient pivot: shifting where sense wants to land.

I sent a single-line love poem to the man who keeps his stories in map margins; he answered with a folded postcard, and she read it aloud until the kettle sang. Later, slow undressing by the glass, the harbor wind threading the room — even the smallest letters hold whole tides.