I often sit at the beach fidgeting with my wedding band, fidgeting with my fingers. I miss your hands in mine.

I often sit at the beach and wonder that the sea knows too much, don’t you think?

It is so old and aged and wise, I wonder what all it has seen.

It knows of the darkest love and the secrets of the ships that sunk in it. It knows of deaths and the whispers that join the stars.

I wonder if that is what makes it so ravenous for skin.

I often sit at the beach and think if that is why he ate you up? To share the stories it held?

I wonder how you are Louis. Are you still down there? Are you sitting down there looking above at the lovely blue sky?

Are you looking at me? I think yes.

Do your hands miss mine?