Harbor wind and translated sentences tonight

Beeswax candle lit in the Söder lighthouse window seat; the harbor breathes slow and indifferent. Sade on the record player and a stubborn Ngũgĩ sentence on the screen — I try a Swedish turn and it keeps steering toward salt.

Wrote a short love poem this morning, folded like a boat and sent to the man in his late forties; the woman my age found a note tucked into her coat last night. Prefer partners whose stories have ballast — heavy sentences, soft confessions — and I'll wait with tea and a spare scarf until their replies wash in.