Two tracks in the sand. Feet. Two parallel tracks. On the sand of a Caribbean beach. Dawn. Parallel. And in tune. Same frequency, the same step: right foot, left foot. Holding hands. Naturally. And walking slowly. In the first Caribbean only. In silence. Overlooking the sea. They look in his eyes. Think. Sigh. In their past. Their future. Always together. Statement that can be articulated at all times. A woman and a man. Sure. One foot is smaller than the other. The age? The sand does not reveal this secret. View the sea and every wave, every shade of green reminds them of a day of their life together: past or future. The joys and pains. Yes Why a strong love is a love that has suffered. It is in the fire that purifies the gold. So love. Not have been so close and do not vibrate, their steps, with the same frequency if they did not hurt each other. Several times. Often, almost always without malice. On rare occasions for evil. Vendetta. Revenge. Trivial jolt ego. More love than you know how deeply hurt. When you want you want. Hit hard. Profound. There, the wound that never heals, which is always swollen and infected. You'll be sorry: he, just maybe, you, maybe after a while '. But you'll be sorry. If you love really means. And love drinking this pain and purifies it.
Two parallel tracks: love does not admit of delay. Expected. We help each other. Continuously. Sometimes with more sweetness with acidity of a bar, which makes the wound bleed. It hurts. But care. The love and care. Hands of a healer. Hands of the king. Queen. Together. Looking ahead. They walk and look ahead. Not to deny the past. They could not: it is their treasure. But because love is creation, generation continues, and future. E 'eternity. They look at the sea that is both hope and dismay. Love can be a storm, but most often it is the harbor, is cool and the breeze, a slight glint of the sun is up so subdued and shy. E 'effort. Love is certainty. One: together. Everything else changes, swings, falls, rears, scuff. Everything flows. But collection remains. Always. It would not be love.
I look at the footprints left at dawn, could be our own. They are not. So I saved the pride. So that would leave the same. But love is not exclusive. That is all. Just want it. In two. Love is more action than emotion. Indeed. First, you will. Steeped with emotion, I agree, as a biscuit covered with chocolate. Without cookie slip away, to disperse.
Two tracks. Parallel.
The only sign of life fused together. 
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