I turned on the news to see Venice is drowning. The boats are tattered, homes lost, families mourning, and all I can think about is how we once walked down those marbled streets in late August, how the air clung onto us and felt like honey on our skin. The bridges we crossed and the children we passed playing football and yelling da questa parte, di qua? The way you gripped my hand as we moved past the swarms of strangers dressed in summer linens. I fell in love with you there all over again. But past the cobblestone alleyways and the laundry that hung from windows that made us feel at home, Venice was sinking softly, letting the water rise. Now I look at the television and sigh. We were there, you and I. Now we’re back to nights where I feel the warmth of your body and wish I was alone, to the mornings where we wake up and don’t know what to say, and to the days wasted fighting about traffic, about dinner, about the future, about the handle on the bathroom door. We are sinking too, letting the water rise softly in the words left unsaid, the way your smile looks forced, the way I stumble over my words when I say, “I love you.”