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06:34 Jan 17 2007
Times Read: 544


I sit on the hard wooden bench. The cold water stings my face as the waves crash against the side of the boat. My eyes are numb from the salt and the wind, but I don’t dare close them. One blink, and I may miss her. I feel light-headed, waiting for her like this. I wonder how long I’ve been here, chained in this boat. Has it been minutes? Days, perhaps? A sword that was once polished steel is now rusted at my feet. I’ve ceased to feel anything but the hunger of her return, the soft sails of her boat heralding her arrival over the waves, above the wind.



I don’t remember the beginning. There may have been no beginning. Was it always this way? Or was there something more? The chains that tethered me to the bench, neatly pinning my arms behind me, were cold and heavy, but had long since lost their power of discomfort over me. They were now a comfort. Had they not been there (who had shackled me so? Did I do this?), I know I would heedlessly dive into the water and drown myself in a vain attempt to find her. How often had I imagined hauling myself out of the sea which had suddenly gone so calm and so warm as her boat bore me up? Too many times to count had I seen this as my eyes continued to eagerly hope for a sign.



Hope keeps me alive.



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