Aging has haunted my thoughts. Not my aging in particular, but all aging. The longer you live, the more there is love. Love is something worked for, labored over, sought after, and carefully protected. And just when love is at its height (which really is every new moment), the loved are snatched.
But love doesn't stop. Curse it for it follows wherever we go for however long we are there. Once tasted, it cannot be denied, no matter how hard we try. So we, the lovers, are left with displaced emotions. The universe sings songs and our senses, which were born to sing along, cannot help but harmonize. Waves crashing, sizzling, foaming at our feet, banana bread pudding between our teeth, fresh air in our lungs, sweet melodies in our ears, and aging lovers on a beach, with time between them. Time, their testament, their banner, their trophy, their curse.