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Life is the sea, my love.

Maybe that is why I think of you so often
when I look at it.

Because there is something of you in it.

Something in that distance
I can never reach,
yet never stop looking toward.

Something in that vastness
that reminds me of your soul.

And as I sit by the shore,
I catch myself talking to you in my thoughts.

As if you were here.

As if you were sitting beside me.

As if I could show you
every reflection of sunlight on the water
and turn it into a story.

I know you have seen the sea countless times.

Perhaps more beautiful seas.

Perhaps larger ones.

Perhaps wilder than this.

But I would still tell you about it.

The way only a woman in love can.

I would tell you how the sky and the sea
fall in love with each other every evening.

How they part in the darkness
only to find each other again at dawn.

How the waves never give up on the shore,
even though they know
they will never be able to keep it.

And somewhere in the middle of telling you all this,
I would probably smile,

because I would realize
that I am not really talking about the sea at all.

I am talking about you.

Because I love you just like that.

The way the sky loves the horizon
it can never touch.

The way dawn loves the sun
before it even sees it.

The way a song loves the voice
that carries it.

And sometimes that love hurts.

Not because it is absent.

But because there is so much of it.

So much that it fits inside every sunset.

Every song.

Every thought that quietly wanders toward you.

And as I watch the open sea,
I find myself wishing
for the simplest thing in the world.

That you were here.

That I could rest my head on your shoulder.

That we could sit in silence.

That I could show you all those colors in the sky
as if you had never seen them before.

And tell you, for the hundredth time,

what the sea already knows.

That I love you.

More than I know how to explain.

More than I probably should.

And perhaps that is because
life is not always simple.

Because some loves do not need a reason.

They simply exist.

Deeply.

Quietly.

And forever a little hungry for closeness.