Melancholy season. The blooms, the blue noon, the stretch of evening. Windows open, allowing soft air, which carries the fragments of voices. Mingling in the senses, a bittersweet blur, hope shot through with time. The aching space.

Nearby, yet distant, the sparkle of the sea, the sense of forever we held, like so much sand, like breath, anticipation, now only imagined. I could stroll to the shoreline in a matter of minutes, bury my toes in the sun-warm sand; but you would not be there.

Something happened, nearly unnoticed, yet undeniable. Was it us, or a flicker of an eyelash in the steady gaze of forever? To me now, so long ago. In truth, closer to nothing. In the gorgeous afternoon I feel your touch as I crash into the chasm between us. Everything is with me, yet the hour is carved out. Emptied.

Today is like the day I met you.