Graphited Harbor

There are men
who will never say

I miss you

Instead they ask

Are you home?
Did you eat?

As if longing sounds less dangerous
when folded into ordinary language

And maybe for some people
it does

Maybe some hearts
were taught survival before confession

I used to think harbors
were built for ship for battered things
dragging entire storms behind them
for vessels returning at impossible hours
and their lights barely surviving the fog

But now I think
a harbor is simply
what happens
when something weary
finally finds the one place it can soften

Maybe that is why
you keep asking

Where I am

Not because you need directions

But because somewhere inside you
my existence has become a shoreline

something your spirit checks for
before resting

So now when I think of harbors
I no longer imagine docks or boats

I imagine two people
finding shelter
inside the sound
of each other’s voice