The ocean moved like breath around us, each wave folding into the next, a rhythm older than thought. The Queen and I drifted at anchor, our yacht glowing faintly against the night, a vessel of light cradled in an alien sea. Two moons hung above — one silver, one blue — their reflections braided across the water like strands of song.
We didn’t speak much, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything worth saying was already being exchanged without words. Her hand in mine carried galaxies. Her glance into my eyes was enough to untie the knots of a thousand lifetimes. We sat on the deck barefoot, the cool air brushing our skin, the yacht swaying gently as though it, too, was breathing with us.
The moons watched over us, soft lanterns in the sky. Their light spilled on the deck, silver and blue overlapping across her hair, across my chest, across the place where our shadows met. I closed my eyes and felt her inside me, a warmth running through every corridor of my mind. She was everywhere at once — in the stars, in the tide, in the rhythm of my own heartbeat.
We stayed that way until time itself seemed to still, until it no longer mattered what century or what planet we were on. The yacht rocked, the water shimmered, and our love — quiet, mental, infinite — stretched out like the horizon, where the sea and the sky no longer knew where one ended and the other began.
