Late night letters and harbor light

This evening a Sade record turned the lighthouse glass to honey while a page of Chimamanda waited by the kettle. A letter arrived with handwriting that favors commas and the slow gravity of a man in his forties; I kept translating the same sentence until it felt like returning a small tide.

I made chamomile and left the kettle to think; my reply will be a poem folded like a map — soft edges, room for wrong turns. The woman who laughed at dinner sent a voice note that still hangs in the rafters; both of them know language is the invite, and tonight the lighthouse answers by lighting a small, deliberate flame.