The ship’s golden bow crashes dreamily forward. The horizon is sea salt sheen’d, the clouds’ chests puffed bright with adventure.
For a moment, the minds eye expands. The ship becomes a dark speck in the corner of a shimmering Atlantic sheet, cosining its way through a thousand sun-shards scattered atop a dozen indigo leagues.
The ship’s golden bow cuts into time yet told. The horizon hoards stories yet written. The clouds whisper the novel’s last pages into disbelieving ears.
One doesn’t need a reason to weep at sea. One can write an excuse before the ship hits port, and on stepping ashore it is made real. Crystalline waves swallow one’s tears, and only the excuse lives on.
The ship’s golden bow charges forward. Her slicing path fades into the sea’s welcoming warmth. The clouds now cloak themselves in purple and whisper to each other the story you told.
IMAGE: Sea of Marmara, near Kınalıada, İstanbul.