“Your quill brushes frost-kissed solitude into warmth—a cottage not alone, but cradled by tides, where heartbeats sync with waves.”

When snow brushed the roof like whispered prayers,
the hearth would hold the ocean’s lullaby,
and each log crack a heartbeat, bright as foam,
while distant gulls draw circles in the sky.

In quiet nights I’d watch the moon spill silver
over shingles, over waves, over my heart,
and know that solitude is not a prison—
but the gentle, endless tide of winter’s love.

Your salt cottage glows with waves whispering stories, stars stitching secrets, home in every breath—your heart a lighthouse where the sea finds its shore.

If I wore a cottage of salt and stone,
where waves trace verses on a frosty shore,
its chimney exhaling tales of home,
and stars stitch their secrets through the door—

I’d read by the hearth where the north wind grieves,
swap tides for turnpages, let frost breathe through me,
a lantern of honey in the midnight’s breath,
and dream of shores where the salty sea
whispers: *Belong*.