It is impossible to name all the colours of the water, for some shades are without name. And that’s ok, because the sacred resides in these spaces in between language and lived experience. And the sacred doesn’t look for definition.

Wrapped in a red poncho, curled around a mug of tea, I’m listening to the wind and the waves crash outside as I coorie in.

My lover curls around the curves of my body, his hot prickly cheek resting against the velvet flesh of my breast. I place the flat of my palm against his chest and feel the languid lubdub of his heart beat beneath the skin and the muscle and the bone. Each beat marks a moment past. And just for a second I allow myself to mourn its passing, knowing that I can never experience that exact beat of his heart ever again – so recently felt and now lost. And part of me is still wondering how many beats of his heart and mine we still have left to share when he…