I live where the trees don't judge me.

Where the wind doesn't ask for ID, and the moon knows my name but keeps it secret.

Out here, the only clock is the tide.

It pulls at my soul like it pulls the sea, telling time in salty water waves, everyone would like to dive in.

I built a home from driftwood and dreams, roofed in silence, floored in moss.

No neighbours just gulls, and the occasional fox who looks at me like I finally get it.

I eat what grows, I drink what falls, and I sleep when the stars say it’s safe.

Down here by the sea I’m leaving the dream. I live the absolute beauty I’ve so aimed for.

But beauty, I’ve learned, isn’t something you catch… it arrives when you stop chasing.

Sometimes I find old things the sea gives back: an unmessaged bottle, a pairless shoe, a cracked mirror that is enough to show me all the versions of me.

When the fog comes, I let it wrap around me like a promise I never asked for. It tells me where I'm meant to be…not lost, just beyond the maps, proudly intangible.

And if someday the universe remembers me, let it be in a whisper children hear loudly in seashells and poets steal for closing super cheesy lines. Let them say: she left the noise, and in doing so, heard everything.