This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.

I’d be honest. I fancied I have never been away and that our adventures and troubles were a dream. Already our memories are fading, returning back to the sea and my pulse is ebbing with yours. I can hear your heartbeat. I have always loved to feel you. You, as strong as the sea tide. I, as weak as your broken arm. My love. My life. Constant in nothing but wenching, lying and escaping. My chest tightens, like a tightrope walker who likes a good fight himself and to do a cover-up for himself, he has to remain where he is but the line he walks on is a line too insignificant to acknowledge.

I cannot part with you. I am you.

Tell me, how do I not love you so?