by Robert Clay
I was perhaps 10,000 years old when I first met her, yet I was still young, for that is the lot of an immortal. But despite all those lifetimes I have lived, from birth in the caves at Lascaux, those long treks with Alexander’s phalanxes, to the technical wonders of this strange age, I never knew love, until now. She is the one bright flower on that great slope of time I have lived, the love I have sought for more than one hundred centuries. That was yet another lifetime ago, and now her long red hair is gray, the once silken skin wrinkled with memories, the shining eyes sad now, because she knows my secret. I cannot age, but when she goes, I will follow. I would sooner be with her in oblivion than live forever without her.
Robert Clay, whose full catalog is here, is a Seafarer now stranded on land. He lives in Cornwall in the UK.