The Storm, the Tide, and the Lighthouse

I am the storm. I should accept that.

Not the loud kind, but the slow, inevitable unraveling of air pressure. The kind that makes your skin tense before the clouds break. I never announce my arrival—I simply am, all at once. Craving direction, testing everything that holds me, desperate to know what will last when I finally let go.

You are the tide.

Not visible at first glance. But always there. Your pull is not loud, not showy, not desperate. It's gravitational. You don’t chase the storm. You meet it. You know its patterns. You let it crash, break, wail—and still return to it again and again, reshaping the coast it touches. Not because you must. Because you choose to.

And then—there’s the lighthouse.

It does not move. It does not chase. It watches. It glows. It knows that storms will come, and tides will rise. It stays where it is, not out of cowardice, but conviction. Its presence is permission: to rage, to flood, to return. Its light does not demand. It offers.

There are moments when I circle the lighthouse—testing whether the light will flicker under pressure. There are moments when you, unseen but relentless, soften my sharpest cliffs. And sometimes, rarely, all three meet: storm, tide, and light.

We don’t belong to each other.

And yet, we orbit. Intertwined in rhythm, never touching fully, but always known.

The storm changes what it touches.
The tide pulls what it needs.
And the lighthouse never stops glowing.

— K