Long, long nights of keyboard communication, and dimmed basement lights. We talked then, through love letters over thousands of miles of land. The marble counter is cool on my skin, laying my head down, the computer screen glowing overhead with the descending drowsiness. There’s no sound in the room aside from the quiet creaks of the old computer, but I can hear your voice fine.

We met in the birth of the night, lonely hearts reaching through telephone lines, talking between stars until the sun rose. A sweet and subtle melancholy danced under our words, and we found it to comfort each other in the darkness of the world. We were not night and day, but the ocean and the black sky; complementing each other together instead of opposites held apart.

I think I loved you. In the clear night, it rung so hard and true and left me barely able to stand. But I was crumbling stone, had been for a long time. I was bitter, raised in the night by wolves and a feeling of blood on my teeth. You left your wings at the doorway, and I never had them to begin with. I didn’t love you enough, didn’t love you right, and trying to put words to what love was for me only brings the concept further from my grasp.

We unraveled each other as the time went on, sharing tales of regret, fears, and dreams unfulfilled. I returned to a location of history and ghosts, a beach with soft sand, shark teeth, and a starry night sky so vast it swallows you whole. That night, the infinite glowing stars shuddered and the universed moved as the black tide of the ocean churned gently against the shore. You confessed that you had never seen the sea with your own two eyes, and I promised you that I’d show you the waters of my home: a beach with sparkling light and an expanse so bright and blue it tore at my heart.

I remember one night, me reclining in a chair in a room of soft orange light. The sky was black through the window beside me. I had a blanket draped over me, as winter had arrived with its usual companions of chill and darkness. It was late, wrapping around to early, as we talked into the night, and with the cold wind at the window I listened to a wistful song of pain and life. It’s then that I know I love you, in whatever manner it ends up, and the attempts to dissect it only served to cut me apart. The warmth of the blanket draws me into the silence of my mind, and the music soon fades from my ears.

I sleep, and only dream of the aching tide.