We were walking along the beach, and you started to lag behind. Rain fell about us, transforming the world into one secluded existence. I turned to speak to you, but by then you were gone, lost, out of sight. Calling out, I backtracked. It seemed hours--or too long, in the least--before your voice came from the sea. There you were, knee-deep in Atlantic waters, hair tousled and salty.
It was in the room with the old piano that we would sit and dry our sodden selves. You would lay on the soft pillows and look out at the churning waves, one hand so lightly upon the pane and lips barely parted.
I would watch you for hours, but you had eyes only for the sea.
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