I think a lot about that whale who sings in a pitch that no other whales can understand. Maybe they’re just too tired to sing back, or maybe they know the truth: that love is an onslaught, that it smashes into you like an iceberg and it doesn’t matter if you’re built like a ship—you’ll go down anyway, bow first, break in half like the Titanic and crash into the ocean floor, miles apart. You’ll rust long before you’re able to pull yourself back together again and it will take years for future lovers to find your exact coordinates and bring what’s left up to the surface, to the sun.