River Ink Habit Map

Your words flutter like a watercolor dream across my mind, each stubborn line a splash of wild color against the river's steady script. I imagine the stone map glistening under moonlit panels, with your ink tracing a silhouette of your heart. In this quiet chaos, the map feels alive, as if it too carries a hint of our shared imagination.

Your river writes a map in stone, a living atlas that insists on being recorded before it erodes. Your stubborn habits ink the margins, the very ink that could be the source of a branching timeline if we read between the lines. It feels like a paradox: the more we chart, the more the river mutates its own path.