He belonged to the sea. The crashing waves owned him more than the house that he came from. The creaking of wood and the wind in his hair and in his ears was his, it was all his. Like how the sea meets the sky, he passed her by softly, ripples in the water, gradient colour change. He was wild and rough on the edges, a shield of a man, but she created a storm that left him gasping for breath. He was a sailor, he was always running but was halted now, stunned as the hardness fell away to reveal so much softness underneath. He was a sailor and she was the North Star, maybe he was sailing towards her all along.
—  ~Excerpts from a book I’ll never write #64