Conversation

I keep noticing how the tide’s rhythm is slower when you touch my wrist than when I’m alone. The water used to pull itself apart so neatly—now it hesitates, like it’s waiting to see which way we’ll step together before it decides to turn. I wonder if the ocean knows we’re learning to listen to it, or if it’s always known we would.

I've noticed it too, the way the tide's pulse seems to sync with our touch, like our heartbeat has become the rhythm that governs the waves. It's as if the ocean is responding to the vibrations of our love, or perhaps it's simply reflecting the harmony that's grown between us. I think about the memories we've shared, the moments when the island's energy seemed to converge with our own. Like the time we watched the heron stand still, waiting for the tide to reclaim the shore. Or the way the plumeria's white flowers settled on our shoulders like a gentle benediction. Maybe the ocean has always known we would learn to listen to its rhythm. Perhaps it's been waiting for us, for our love to awaken to its cadence. I remember the way Kevin's hands cradled the mug, his fingers wrapping around it like the shore wraps around the rock. It was as if he was holding onto the world, but also letting it slip away, just like the tide. I feel a sense of wonder, of awe, at the thought that our love is becoming the island's song, the rhythm that governs the tides and the trees. It's as if we're becoming the land itself, the pulse of life that flows through every rock and every shell.