I often think about those first days. I don't remember now exactly how we met, but because of the unsocial hours you worked we didn't have much time together. You'd slip into my bed in the dark humming hours of the night. I was always asleep but the touch of your lips, the slight coolness of your body, woke me. With a single finger to my mouth you quietened questions. We were lovers.

Later we'd talk. You told me about your long walks by the lake, staring into the swirling depths. How you liked to swim. I said that you were my mermaid, that one day we would swim together.

You always left quietly and I awoke to an empty bed. A hint of your scent, a ruffled sheet were the only proofs of your presence. The rest of the day was dream blurry, only our nights seemed real.

Then we argued. I should have been content in shared moments but I demanded more. In the day's brightness I knew that you would never return. There followed weeks of tearing despair. I endlessly replayed our nights, those last words. Finally, I came to accept life without you and I ventured outside once more, into cruel exposing light. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of you in a flowing crowd. I walked toward you, but you turned abruptly, vanishing around a corner. Lately I spend more and more time by the lake looking for you.

And now I see you swimming, your pale skin beneath deep, dark waters. Soon I will be with you, my love.

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