And I've been telling you, you know, how heavy the sun feels and how it makes my muscles jump like a bird's wings as it flutters gently down on a windowsill. I still have those glass bottles on my mantle where the morning light hits them—still there, full of colored water and seashells. And maybe I'll tell you how they light up the ceiling in blue and green and pale yellow just like they always have, like nothing ever changed.
I smell you on the sea air, sometimes, when it rushes in past the thin white curtains you helped me hang. They still bounce with every gust like exuberant dogs. And I've been telling you how the salt has most assuredly worked its way into my marrow now, and maybe if someone were to put me in a pie they'd find it too brackish for their taste. And then I wonder just how much you taste like the sea.
The ocean beats my heart for me nowadays. Even inside, even at night, I can feel each breaker rumbling through my sternum and radiating along my ribs. And I've been telling you how it feels when the storms hit, the way I feel like the waves fill me up and shake me until I'm near shattering. It's not a bad feeling—I've told you that, too. The ocean is so much stronger than me (and of course you know that well enough) and when it storms I feel like maybe some of that strength has seeped inside me, somewhere.
I miss you. It's hardest at dusk, when the sun kisses the ocean so far away on the horizon and I start to think about how it used to be. I lost you to the sunset, after all. But in the end, maybe, you are a part of the sea now—rolling and tumbling through the undercurrent and feeling the power of the storm in your bones, maybe—and I am of the sea, too. So—maybe—in those storms when we are both the ocean, and the lightning makes those glass bottles glow and the curtains are whipping in an utter ecstasy and the breakers are pounding with everything they have in them—maybe the sea didn't take you so far from me after all.