The Boat and the Water Ripples

Apparently, we’re on the same boat.

We don’t know for how long we've been stranded here, stuck in the middle of the ocean listening to the sound of the waves and the ripples for days and days pushing us farther to forget about the sound of the car-horns in traffics and the noises that come out from the keyboard when we’re typing words. We even fail to recall the sound of the barking dog echoing in the Abbey Road.

For how long we don’t know.

Apparently, we’re on the same boat.
We sit on the side of the boat facing each other without saying a word. The silence revolves into a comfortable situation which we finally get used to. We feel content as it slowly fills the empty space and sits together with us.
We look into each other’s eyes and found nothing but only the reflection of ourselves. Yours in mine and mine in yours. Like seeing ourselves in front of a mirror.
There are only two of us now.

Why did they leave? Or maybe we’re the one forcing them to leave?
I don’t care for the answer. I’m not hoping for any answer. I don’t even want you to answer.
I put up my left hand with my palms open, reaching you. But you hesitate. Your right hand never meets my left.
You take a sigh and look into the lake. Please bring me to the coast, you said, while my left hand is still hanging silently in the air.

Then I paddle. The boat moves and the water ripples.