The Science of Water Love.

I imagine us to be an ocean, until I remember that now we’re just two currents. You’re one, I’m the other.

I don’t know when the ocean decided it wasn’t going to be one anymore; we didn’t really have a choice. Wind changes perhaps, or earth rotations, that slowly made you drift North and me to the South. It happened over time, a long time; we tried to hold onto one another, as best as water could, two currents in the same ocean, but eventually we hit a continent. The wind pulled you one way, me the other and we split. We just couldn’t resist.

You know that we’re far apart, it seemed to have happened almost instantaneously, but the split was violent, as it usually is when you snap something so fragile in half, like a bird’s leg. I don’t blame you, we’re not ready to stay a big, vast ocean right now and stay that way for the rest of our lives. We tried to keep going, flowing, but currents can’t resist the pull.

Those schools of fish beneath you never went away. Their colors enticed you, I know they did. I find fish annoying, they flit everywhere and never commit. They’re always the same. I know one day they will all be gone or their colors will fade. Fish don’t know where they’re going; they will sometimes lead you in the wrong direction if you’re not careful.

We still exist in the same body of water, we just don’t touch anymore. You flow into other rivers and streams and gullies. Sometimes it seems like we have a different horizon line. We could have done great things, maybe even expanded past that point where the sun dips behind us. But the storms overtook us, that continent smashed between us and now we’re just two currents.