They never finished their wild conversation, ghostly
howls of murderous wind cutting off all but the sight—
violet colors, a seastorm of rage between them.

Dark eyes narrowed, holding each other hostage
in the deepening night. Shoulders formed rocky
and stoic promontories against the seawall,

which held stubborn against their passionate shouts.
And when rivulets of mist and tears grew dense enough
to weigh, turned to sky meeting churning sea, when cobblestones

became the harbour floor—they could either choose to stand down,
or spend forever hating themselves for hating each other.
Their choice was made. The heat of clenched fists

became a hearth. A touch to a collarbone, bared,
safe from the thundersquall roiling along the quay,
became a sigh of all things right and true.

And now, when ravens own the night, fog corks
the lighthouse, and not a bicycle or drunk is fumbling
home in blinded streets, at one house lives tranquility.