You.
You are the rock I can cling to in stormy seas.
You are my lighthouse and my life-boat.
You keep me safe and guide me home.
You stop me drowning.
When I become as crumpled as a letter filled with bad news, you smooth me out. Over and over, under your fingertips, until the lines are new pathways to follow and promise us a future instead of only a past.

As time moves on, I will fold again, over and over and over, until I feel smaller. You will hold me carefully in your gentle palm, then meticulously, intricately, lovingly, cut away the parts that I don’t need.

Snip, snip, snip.

The excess drifts away, floats down onto the water as tiny paper snowflakes. These small white snippings melt into the raging ocean and become the white horses.

I know you love me; when you have snipped away the pieces that hold me back, you let me fly. I become an origami fledgling, soaring over the oceans. I swoop and dive and become at peace with the air around me.

When I land again, I stand on the edge of the world and watch the beauty of the storm. The rage is thrilling and splendid.

I fold. You smooth and snip.

I am a paper boat, bobbing at peril in a Turneresque seascape. I drink up the colour. The parts of me that became the white horses dance on the waves, and crash towards the shore. I toss my mane and turn back for more.
I am part of the tempest. You do not try to tame me or calm me.
I ride the surf and laugh as the spray blinds me.
I am always just over the next wave; just beyond your sight.

You will find me.