The old man sat on the weathered porch, his eyes tracing the horizon where the sun bled into the sea. Time etched lines on his face, stories carved in wrinkles. He spoke in few words, but each held the weight of a lifetime.

His boat, the "Santiago," anchored nearby, spoke of countless battles waged against the elusive marlin. Today, the old man felt a whisper in the wind, a promise of one last duel. He set out alone, the sea a vast canvas, and the sun a fading ember.

For days, the line between man and fish blurred. The marlin danced with the current, a dance of survival. The old man, weathered hands gripping the rod, fought against nature's relentless pull. Each pull and tug mirrored the ebb and flow of life.

As the struggle reached its zenith, the old man whispered to the marlin, a silent tribute to a worthy adversary. In that vast expanse, they understood each other, two warriors in the great theater of existence.

The battle ended as the sun dipped below the horizon. Exhausted, the old man lay in the boat, the marlin tethered beside him. In the quiet, he gazed at the stars, feeling the pulse of the universe in his veins.

He returned to the village, the "Santiago" a testament to his triumph. Villagers marveled at the size of the marlin, but the old man spoke not of victory but of the sea's eternal embrace. Hemmingway would have approved, for in the simplicity of the tale, the profound rhythm of life echoed, and the old man, weathered but not broken, became a legend in the fading light.

Remembering the day of our first kiss. That sensual touch of yours hit me hard on every part of my spine. Whenever I take a shower or take off my clothes I feel you getting into me. But those were just flaccid imaginations that curbs me from reality. It hits me now and then, be it i my sleep and at my job. Its that few seconds of touch that ensures that I am alive. I feel your lips on all of me, hands on my face. Come back. I want you for all the time I am alive.