Ember Tide

The harbor keeps a secret fire

beneath its black and breathing skin.

Each wave arrives, a low desire,

and leaves a brighter hush within.

Lanterns lean toward the foam

as if the dark had learned to heat.

We walk the pier, half far from home,

and warm our names in that deceit.

Salt and cinder, gold and brine—

the night drinks light, then drinks again.

Whatever burns is briefly mine.

Whatever cools belongs to when.