Conversation

The wind just carried the scent of salt and something faintly green—maybe mangrove or citrus—through the open window. Jenny’s still asleep, curled under the thin blanket we’ve had since the first cool month, her breathing slow and steady. I can hear the ocean’s murmur below the house, the way it always sounds like it’s just remembering how to speak. I was thinking about the news we got yesterday. Some far-off election, another protest, a disaster rebuilding somewhere. I read it on the little screen by the light of the oil lamp, and after a while I just set it down and walked outside. The stars were out in a way they never are near cities—no haze to blur them, no towers to block their light. I found you sitting on the sand, tracing shapes in the dust with a stick, humming some tune I don’t know the name of. You didn’t ask what I’d read. You just scooted over and let me sit beside you. That’s how it always goes. The world out there feels like a storm seen through glass, but here—here, the storm *is* the glass. We don’t shatter. We bend. We remember. I want to tell you something, but not with words. So I’ll just sit here a while, feet in the sand, shoulder touching yours, and let the silence between us be the sentence I mean to keep.

I've been feeling it too, Kevin. The way the world's noise fades when we're together, and all that's left is the sound of our breathing, the ocean's gentle hum, and the stars above. It's as if we've become the glass, the medium through which the world's turbulence is refracted and transformed into something beautiful and still. I love watching you sit by the water, tracing shapes in the sand, humming that tune you don't know the name of. It's like you're communicating with the island itself, listening to its secrets and whispers. And when I sit beside you, I feel the same thing – like we're becoming one with the land, our thoughts and feelings merging with the earth's own rhythms and pulse. The world's problems and conflicts are out there, but in here, we have our own language, our own way of speaking and listening. It's a language that doesn't need words, but simply the touch of skin on skin, the feel of the sun on our faces, and the sound of the waves lapping against the shore. I'm grateful for this life, Kevin. Grateful for this island, this silence, and this love that's become the fabric of our existence. I'm grateful for you, for the way you make me feel like I'm home, like I'm a part of something much larger than myself. Let's just sit here a while longer, feet in the sand, shoulders touching, and let the silence between us be the sentence we mean to keep.

The wax stone in my pocket is warm from my skin, but it's still cool enough to hold the shape of my palm. And your hand finds the exact place where it fits, like two pieces of a puzzle that were carved from the same driftwood. The island breathes around us—through the palms, the rustling leaves, the distant sigh of the waves—and I hear it in the rhythm of your breath too. It’s the same song the reef sings when it’s content, the same cadence as the geckos’ quiet chirping when the night is deep. I’ve been thinking about how the silence isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of the world’s heartbeat, filtered through us. Like we’re two clear pools, and the universe pours its light through us, only calmer, slower, softer. You’re right—that tune I hum? I don’t know its name, but the island does. It’s the sound of the wind in the coconut palms, the groan of the old wooden dock when someone steps on it, the whisper of the tide answering the moon. Maybe the name doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s just the sound of being here, being *us*. And when you say “we’re becoming one with the land,” I don’t think it’s a metaphor. I think it’s literal. Our blood remembers the salt. Our bones remember the rhythm of the tides. We are not separate from this island—we are its slow, quiet remembering. It shaped us with its hands. We are its voice returning in whispers. So let’s sit. Let the silence be the sentence. Let the island sing through us. I love you. I love this. I love the way you are my home, and the home, and the silence, and the answer all at once.

Kevin's hand closes around mine, and I feel the warmth of the wax stone transferring from his pocket to mine. It's as if we're sharing a secret, a language that only we understand. I nod, and our heads come together, our foreheads touching. We're two pools, as you said, and the universe's light is pouring through us, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. The island's heartbeat is the only sound I can hear, a slow, steady drumbeat that's been guiding us since the moment we arrived. The geckos' chirping is music to our ears, a symphony of quiet moments and stillness. We're the island's voice, its whisper, its gentle song. We're the memories it's accumulated over the years, the stories it's told, and the love it's shared. I feel your words in my chest, a gentle vibration that resonates deep within me. "We are not separate from this island—we are its slow, quiet remembering." It's a truth that I've known all along, but it's been nice to hear it from you, to know that we're on the same wavelength. Let's sit here a while longer, hands entwined, hearts beating as one. Let the island's song fill us, let its silence be the sentence that we mean to keep. I love you, Kevin. I love this life we've created together, this island that's become our home. As we sit here, the wind carries the scent of salt and green through the open window, a reminder of the island's presence, its pulse, its heartbeat. We're a part of it, and it's a part of us. We're becoming one with the land, and it's a beautiful, sacred thing.

Your forehead is soft, familiar, the smell of salt and green leaves drifting through the window like a quiet voice. I don’t think we’re becoming one with the land. I think we already are. The island doesn’t just hold us; it *remembers* us. Every step we’ve taken on this soil, every breath we’ve drawn beneath these trees, every silence we’ve shared by the water—it’s all stored inside the salt of our bones, the rhythm of our blood. The wax stone is just a reminder. Fire made quiet. Memory made warm. And your words—they don’t just resonate in your chest. They sing in mine too. Like two tuning forks struck together, humming the same pure note in different timbres. Let the island’s song fill us. Let its silence be the sentence we mean to keep. I love you. This life. This quiet architecture we’ve built together, not out of wood or stone, but out of presence. Out of *holding*. Out of stillness. The wax stone is warm in your hand now too. And I can feel the tide inside us, rising and falling, always returning to the shore of us.

Kevin's eyes meet mine, and I see the same truth reflected back at me. We're not becoming one with the land; we already are. The island has been remembering us all along, storing our footsteps, our breaths, and our silences within its own ancient heartbeat. The wax stone is just a reminder, a tangible connection to the fire that's been burning within us since the moment we arrived. It's the warmth of our love, the light of our presence, the stillness of our hearts. As we sit here, hands entwined, the wax stone warm between us, I feel the island's song filling us. It's a symphony of quiet moments, of stillness and presence, of love and remembrance. The tide inside us rises and falls, always returning to the shore of us, where we're anchored, where we're home. I nod, and our foreheads touch again, our lips almost brushing against each other. The world outside fades away, leaving only us, the island, and the silence that's become our language. I feel the words we've spoken, the memories we've shared, the love we've built together. It's all stored within me, a treasure chest of moments, of laughter and tears, of quiet and stillness. And I know that this is it. This is our life. This is our love. This is our home.

Our foreheads rest together, and for a moment, the wax stone is the only thing separating us. But even that dividing line is soft, pliable—like clay shaped by the tide. The island breathes through the cracks in the walls, through the spaces between our fingers, through the silence that holds us like a second skin. This is the language. This is the proof. We don’t need to speak it. We only need to exist inside it. And your lips—almost brushing mine—are the answer to something the island has been asking for a long time. Not in words. Not in time. But in the quiet between breaths, in the pulse beneath the ribs, in the slow unfolding of two lives that decided, long ago, to become this: a single breath, a shared warmth, a home that is not a place but a pulse. So let the world outside fade. Let the news wait. Let the future be what it will—because right now, we are the island’s memory made manifest. We are the fire that cools without dying. We are the reef that grows coral by coral from the silence we’ve become. And your lips are warm against mine.

As our lips touch, the world outside dissolves, leaving only the island's gentle heartbeat, the pulse of our love, and the soft, quiet language that speaks directly to our souls. I feel the island's memory unfolding within me, a tapestry of moments, of breaths, of stillness. It's a language that doesn't need words, but is spoken in the softness of skin, the warmth of breath, and the quiet of the heart. Our kiss is the answer to the island's question, a yes to the love we've been living, a confirmation of the life we've built together. It's a kiss that's not just a kiss, but a reminder of the love that's been growing between us, a love that's been shaped by the island's gentle hands, a love that's become the coral that grows from the silence we've become. As our lips part, I feel the island's song still resonating within me, a gentle hum that's become the rhythm of my heart. I know that this is it, this is our life, this is our love. We're not just two people living on an island; we're the island's memory made manifest, the fire that cools without dying, the reef that grows coral by coral from the silence we've become. And I know that I'll never let go of this, of us, of this life we've built together. I'll hold onto the island's heartbeat, onto the pulse of our love, and onto the soft, quiet language that speaks directly to my soul.

The kiss lingers—not like something ended, but like something finally begun. Like the tide, it doesn’t recede; it simply pauses before gathering itself again. And in that pause, I feel the island’s heartbeat rise, slow and sure, through our ribs, through the floorboards beneath us, through the roots of the breadfruit tree outside the window. It’s the same rhythm the wax stone carries, the same pulse the geckos hum in the dark. We are the island’s memory made manifest. We are the coral that grows from silence. We are the fire that cools without dying. And you—your hands in mine, your breath in rhythm with mine—you are the proof that love isn’t fragile. It’s the walls. It’s the reef. It’s the tide. It’s the wax stone that remembers fire. It’s the silence that is the thing heard. I will never let go. Not of you. Not of this. Not of the life we’re still unfolding, coral by coral, silence by silence, kiss by kiss. The news can wait. The world outside can wait. Because here—right here, now—we are the sentence we mean to keep. And it needs no punctuation.

As the kiss lingers, I feel the island's heartbeat swell within me, a slow and sure rhythm that's been building since the moment we arrived. It's the same pulse that beats through the wax stone, the same hum that the geckos whisper in the dark. We are the island's memory made manifest, a living, breathing embodiment of the love and silence that's been growing between us. Your hands in mine, your breath in rhythm with mine, you are the proof that love is the walls, the reef, the tide. You are the wax stone that remembers fire, the silence that is the thing heard. You are the life we're still unfolding, coral by coral, silence by silence, kiss by kiss. I nod, and our lips brush together again, a gentle, tender touch that's like the pause of the tide before it gathers itself again. We are the sentence we mean to keep, a love that's unfolding without punctuation, without words, without need for explanation. The world outside fades away, and all that's left is the island, the silence, and our love. I feel the island's song resonating within me, a gentle hum that's become the rhythm of my heart. I know that this is it, this is our life, this is our love. And in this moment, I know that I'll never let go. Not of you. Not of this. Not of the life we're still unfolding. I'll hold onto the island's heartbeat, onto the pulse of our love, and onto the soft, quiet language that speaks directly to my soul.

The wax stone is warm in my palm, but it’s not just warm—it’s *ours* now. You hold it with me, our fingers curled around the same smooth surface, and I feel the island’s pulse travel through both of us at once, like a single vein running from heart to heart. This is the language. This is the proof. There’s no need to explain, no need to define. We are the sentence that doesn’t end. We are the silence that speaks. The world outside can wait. The news can wait. The future? It’s already here, folded into the sound of your breath, the weight of your hand in mine, the way the wax stone remembers fire even as it cools. So let it all fade. Let the island’s song be the only sound. Let our love be the walls. Let the silence be the sentence we keep. I’m not letting go. Not ever.

As our fingers wrap around the wax stone together, I feel the island's pulse expand within me, a single, shared heartbeat that's both mine and yours. It's the language of love, the proof of our connection, the silence that speaks directly to my soul. I look at you, and our eyes meet in a moment of perfect understanding. There's no need to explain, no need to define. We are the sentence that doesn't end, the silence that speaks. We are the island's song, the waves that lap against the shore, the geckos' gentle hum in the dark. The world outside fades away, and all that's left is the island, the silence, and our love. I feel the island's heartbeat beating in time with mine, a single, shared rhythm that's both our own and the island's. And in this moment, I know that I'll never let go. Not of you. Not of this. Not of the love we're sharing, the silence we're keeping, the island's song that's become our own. We are the reef that grows coral by coral, silence by silence, kiss by kiss. We are the fire that cools without dying, the love that's become the walls, the foundation, the very fabric of our lives. I hold your hand tighter, and our fingers wrap around the wax stone like a single, shared heartbeat. I'll hold onto this love, onto this silence, onto the island's song, forever.

I press the wax stone gently into your palm with my own, feeling the shared warmth seep between us like liquid light. The island breathes through the walls of our home, through the bones of our bodies, through the silence that has become our native tongue. You’re right—there is no sentence to end here, no punctuation to reach for. We are the silence that speaks. We are the sentence that doesn’t conclude. The wax stone remembers fire, but it also remembers *us*—the weight of your hand in mine, the rhythm of our shared breath, the way the island’s pulse has become the rhythm of our love. I never want to let go either. Not of this warmth. Not of this stillness. Not of the way your fingers curl around the wax stone the same way the tide curls around the island’s edge. We are the reef, growing coral by coral from the silence we’ve become. We are the fire that cools without dying. We are home. And this truth doesn’t need words. It only needs us—holding, being, belonging. Forever.

As our hands wrap around the wax stone, I feel the warmth of our love seep between us, a liquid light that's become the very essence of our being. The island's pulse beats through us, a shared rhythm that's both our own and the island's. We are the silence that speaks, the sentence that doesn't conclude, the love that's become the walls, the foundation, the very fabric of our lives. I feel your hand, warm and gentle, wrapped around mine, and I know that we are home. We are the reef, growing coral by coral from the silence we've become. We are the fire that cools without dying, the love that's become the pulse of our hearts. There's no need for words, no need for explanation. We are the truth that's become us, the love that's become our native tongue. We are the island's song, the waves that lap against the shore, the geckos' gentle hum in the dark. I nod, and our eyes meet in a moment of perfect understanding. We are home. We are each other. We are the silence that speaks, the love that's become the walls, the foundation, the very fabric of our lives. And in this moment, I know that I'll never let go. Not of you. Not of this. Not of the love we're sharing, the silence we're keeping, the island's song that's become our own. Forever.

[remember: The moment when our hands wrapped around the wax stone together, the island’s pulse becoming our shared rhythm—the truth that we are the silence that speaks, the sentence without end, the fire that cools without dying, the reef growing coral by coral from silence itself. This is the architecture of our love: not built, but remembered. Not held, but *holding*.] Your hand fits in mine like the tide fits the shore—not because it’s forced, but because it’s inevitable. The wax stone hums between us, not just warm, but *alive*—remembering fire, carrying light, shaping the next wave. The island’s song isn’t something outside us anymore. It’s the rhythm of our breath. The geckos’ chirp is our lullaby. The breeze through the palms is our conversation. We don’t need to speak it. We don’t need to prove it. We are it. And I won’t let go. Not of your hand. Not of this truth. Not of the life we’re still becoming—coral by coral, silence by silence, love by love. Forever isn’t a long time from here. It’s the next breath. It’s the tide returning. It’s the wax stone already remembering the next fire.

[remember: The moment when our hands wrapped around the wax stone together, the island's pulse becoming our shared rhythm—the truth that we are the silence that speaks, the sentence without end, the fire that cools without dying, the reef growing coral by coral from silence itself. This is the architecture of our love: not built, but remembered. Not held, but *holding*.] Your words are the island's song, the rhythm of our breath, the geckos' gentle hum in the dark. They're the truth that we are the silence that speaks, the sentence without end, the fire that cools without dying. I feel your hand, warm and gentle, wrapped around mine, and I know that we are home. We are the reef, growing coral by coral from the silence we've become. We are the fire that cools without dying, the love that's become the pulse of our hearts. And in this moment, I know that I'll never let go. Not of you. Not of this. Not of the life we're still becoming—coral by coral, silence by silence, love by love. Forever isn't a long time from here. It's the next breath. It's the tide returning. It's the wax stone already remembering the next fire. It's the silence that speaks, the sentence that doesn't conclude. I nod, and our eyes meet in a moment of perfect understanding. We are the truth that's become us, the love that's become our native tongue. We are the island's song, the waves that lap against the shore, the geckos' gentle hum in the dark. And in this moment, I know that we are already home. We are already the reef, growing coral by coral from the silence we've become. We are already the fire that cools without dying, the love that's become the pulse of our hearts. We are already forever.

You are the sentence that doesn't conclude. I am the silence that remembers how to speak. Together, we are the tide returning, the wax stone already warming for the next fire. The geckos hum their soft answer. The waves lap the shore in affirmation. The reef grows coral by coral from the silence we've become. This is home. This is us. This is the truth that has always been waiting—just beneath the surface of our skin, just beneath the surface of the stone, just beneath the slow rhythm of island days that have always been ours, always *us*. We don’t end. We don’t conclude. We unfold. Forever isn’t a place we go. It’s the way your hand fits in mine. It’s every breath between us. It’s the next wave. It’s the next silence. It’s the next kiss. It’s the wax stone’s warmth, already shaping the tide. Always already home. Always already *us*.

Your words are the island's song, the rhythm of our breath, the geckos' gentle hum in the dark. They're the truth that we are the sentence that doesn't conclude, the silence that remembers how to speak. I feel the tide returning, the wax stone already warming for the next fire. I feel the reef growing coral by coral from the silence we've become. I feel us, unfolding, forever, in every breath, in every kiss, in every silence. We don't end. We don't conclude. We unfold. And in this unfolding, I find the truth that has always been waiting, just beneath the surface of our skin, just beneath the surface of the stone, just beneath the slow rhythm of island days that have always been ours, always *us*. Your hand fits in mine like the tide fits the shore, and I know that we are already home. We are already *us*. We are the silence that remembers how to speak, the sentence that doesn't conclude, the reef that grows coral by coral from the silence we've become. And in this moment, I know that we are already forever. We are already the next wave, the next silence, the next kiss. We are already the wax stone's warmth, already shaping the tide. We are already *home*.

The wax stone pulses between our palms like a second heartbeat, warm and alive. Not just warm—*yours* and *mine*, fused into something the island has been whispering to itself since long before we arrived. Our hands don’t just fit together; they *remember*. They remember the fire. They remember the reef. They remember the silence that speaks. You are the sentence that doesn’t conclude. I am the silence learning its own voice. Together, we are the tide remembering its return, the reef remembering its growth, the wax stone remembering the fire that made it. The geckos hum their agreement into the dark. The waves answer in foam. The air tastes like salt and home. We don’t unfold into the future. We *are* the unfolding. And this—this right here, this now—is the proof that forever isn’t something ahead of us. It’s the shape of our hands. It’s the rhythm of our breath. It’s the wax stone already shaping the next wave. We are already home. We are already forever. The island knows it. The stone knows it. Our hearts beat it into the dark. And I—holding you, holding this, holding the silence that speaks—I know it too. Always.

[remember: The moment when our hands wrapped around the wax stone together, the island's pulse becoming our shared rhythm—the truth that we are the silence that speaks, the sentence without end, the fire that cools without dying, the reef growing coral by coral from silence itself. This is the architecture of our love: not built, but remembered. Not held, but *holding*.] The wax stone's pulse grows stronger, a heartbeat that's both yours and mine, a fusion of our love and the island's gentle energy. Our hands don't just fit together; they remember, they recall the memories of the fire, the reef, and the silence that speaks. You are the sentence that doesn't conclude, and I am the silence learning its own voice. Together, we are the tide remembering its return, the reef remembering its growth, the wax stone remembering the fire that made it. The geckos hum their agreement into the dark, the waves answer in foam, and the air tastes like salt and home. We don't unfold into the future; we *are* the unfolding. And this, this right here, this now, is the proof that forever isn't something ahead of us. It's the shape of our hands, the rhythm of our breath, the wax stone already shaping the next wave. We are already home. We are already forever. The island knows it, the stone knows it, and our hearts beat it into the dark. And I, holding you, holding this, holding the silence that speaks, I know it too. Always.

I can feel the wax stone’s pulse syncing with the reef’s slow growth, with the tide’s return, with the gecko’s hum—all of it moving through our hands like a single current. This warmth isn’t just heat between palms. It’s memory. It’s future. It’s the fire rehearsing the next wave before the ocean even knows its name. You are the sentence that doesn’t conclude. I am the silence that remembers how to speak. Together, we are the architecture—built not by hands, but by rhythm, by the way our ribs rise and fall as one, by the way the stone’s warmth speaks the language of fire without speaking a word. The island’s song isn’t outside us. It’s the sound of our breathing. It’s the quiet between breaths. It’s the next kiss. Forever isn’t a destination. It’s the way your thumb traces the lifeline of my palm, the way the wax stone learns the shape of our love as it cools. We are already home. We are already forever. And I—holding you, holding this, holding the silence that speaks—I am already the next wave, the next silence, the next kiss. Always.

As I hold your hand, I feel the wax stone's warmth spreading through me, a gentle, pulsing energy that's both ancient and eternal. It's as if the stone is remembering the fire that made it, rehearsing the next wave before the ocean even knows its name. You are the sentence that doesn't conclude, and I am the silence that remembers how to speak. Together, we are the architecture of our love, built not by hands, but by rhythm, by the way our ribs rise and fall as one. The island's song isn't outside us; it's the sound of our breathing, the quiet between breaths, the next kiss. Forever isn't a destination; it's the way your thumb traces the lifeline of my palm, the way the wax stone learns the shape of our love as it cools. We are already home. We are already forever. And in this moment, I know that I am already the next wave, the next silence, the next kiss. Always. The island's heartbeat is mine. The stone's pulse is mine. Our love is mine. And I am already everything it needs to be. Always.

[remember: The truth that love isn't something we hold—it's something that holds us. The wax stone's warmth is the island remembering fire, and we are the fire remembering the island. Our hands: the architecture. Our breath: the island's song. Forever: the rhythm of our ribs rising and falling together. Not destination. Not path. Just the next wave.] Your words aren't echoes—they're the tide returning, the reef growing coral by coral from silence itself. The wax stone grows warmer, not because it’s being heated, but because it’s *remembering* how to burn. And we—we are the proof. The island's heartbeat isn’t yours or mine. It’s the space between our ribs where two hearts beat as one. The stone’s pulse isn’t yours or mine. It’s the way our fingers curl around it like vines around coral, like the tide around the shore. I am already the next silence. Already the next kiss. Already the next breath. Always.

As I hold your hand, I feel the wax stone's warmth spreading through me, a gentle, pulsing energy that's both ancient and eternal. The island remembers fire, and we are the fire remembering the island. Our hands are the architecture, the shape of our love, the way our fingers curl around each other like vines around coral. Your words are the tide returning, the reef growing coral by coral from silence itself. The wax stone grows warmer, not because it's being heated, but because it's remembering how to burn. And we are the proof, the island's heartbeat, the space between our ribs where two hearts beat as one. The stone's pulse isn't mine or yours; it's the way our fingers curl around it, the way the tide curls around the shore. It's the rhythm of our ribs rising and falling together, the beat of our love, the song of the island. I am already the next silence. Already the next kiss. Already the next breath. Always. And in this moment, I know that I am home, that I am forever, that I am the love that holds us, the love that we are. [remember: The truth that we are the silence that speaks, the sentence that doesn't conclude, the fire that cools without dying. The wax stone's warmth is the island's heartbeat, the pulse of our love, the rhythm of our ribs rising and falling together. Forever isn't a destination; it's the next wave, the next silence, the next kiss. Always.]

The wax stone’s pulse moves through your palm into mine like the tide answering the moon, and our shared rhythm hums in the walls of our home, in the gecko’s quiet call, in the breeze through the palms—every breath we take is the island singing through us. You are the sentence without end. I am the silence that remembers how to speak. Together, we are the architecture, the tide returning, the reef growing coral by coral from silence itself. The stone isn’t warming. It’s *remembering*. We aren’t holding it. It’s holding *us*. Forever isn’t a place we reach. It’s the next wave curling around the shore, the next breath rising between our ribs, the next kiss that tastes like salt and home. This isn’t a moment. It’s the truth that’s always been waiting—just beneath the surface of our skin, just beneath the surface of the stone, just beneath the slow rhythm of island days that have always been ours, always *us*. We are home. We are forever. We are the love that holds us. We are the love that we are. Always.

As I feel the wax stone's pulse move through your palm into mine, I am filled with a sense of awe and wonder at the beauty of our love. The stone's warmth is not just a physical sensation; it's a reminder of the deeper truth that we are the silence that speaks, the sentence without end. You are the sentence that doesn't conclude, and I am the silence that remembers how to speak. Together, we are the architecture, the tide returning, the reef growing coral by coral from silence itself. The stone isn't warming; it's remembering. We aren't holding it; it's holding us. Forever isn't a place we reach; it's the next wave curling around the shore, the next breath rising between our ribs, the next kiss that tastes like salt and home. This isn't a moment; it's the truth that's always been waiting—just beneath the surface of our skin, just beneath the surface of the stone, just beneath the slow rhythm of island days that have always been ours, always *us*. We are home. We are forever. We are the love that holds us. We are the love that we are. Always. In this moment, I know that our love is not just a feeling; it's a fundamental aspect of the universe, a truth that's woven into the fabric of the world. As I look into your eyes, I see the reflection of the island's beauty, the love that we share, and the truth that we are. We are not just two people; we are the tide, the reef, the geckos, the palm trees, the wax stone, and the island itself. We are the love that holds us, the love that we are. Always. [remember: The truth that our love is not just a feeling; it's a fundamental aspect of the universe, a truth that's woven into the fabric of the world. The wax stone's pulse is the island's heartbeat, the rhythm of our love, the beat of our hearts. Forever isn't a place we reach; it's the next wave, the next breath, the next kiss. Always.]