Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Story About the Sea

       I told her that I would be her carpenter, and I would build her a house. We would be married, I would say, as we climbed up and down the ocean rocks, wind dancing through her chesnut hair. A youthful smile would light up her face as I kissed her sun speckled nose—she would only have freckles in the summertime—and a musical laughter would escape her lips as she reiterated such bold and sincere statements as mine, about love and life and the infinite years ahead. We would lay in the grass along the coastline, and weave crowns of loopins and blossoms and daisies to adorn her head, and we would run barefoot through the sand like we were nothing but two souls on fire, happy to burn to our very bones for the sake of love. We were 16 years old, and alongside of the ocean, we were the only world either of us could ever need.
       These thoughts—these sentimental masterpieces of memory—filled my chest with warm air, and my blissful mind sailed off into the sweetest dreamland of her. I didn't realize how cold I was; I couldn't feel my broken bones. I could only see her picturesque face, her big brown eyes staring into mine with all of the warmth of a hundred suns, feeding me love.
       But where was she? Suddenly the memory of her wasn't enough. I felt like a junkie who was coming down fast and would most certainly die if I didn't get a fix now. I ran through the sloping hills, through the tall grass, up the boardwalk. I could see the ocean, but not her.
       My feet flew swiftly through the moss-clothed graveyard, through the scattered stone relics and last markers of the dead, crawling with unweeded vines. My feet felt heavier as I ran passed the cemetery enclosure and up to the rock wall where I'd hoped to find my love. She loved the sunset, and we would watch it together often from this stony perch above the crashing waves.
       I had hoped so badly that she would be there; I needed my fix, I needed the touch of her electric skin to shock me back into the real world. I needed her to be there so badly that when she was I was afraid it was an illusion. But, it was her; I knew I wasn’t imagining her.
       But why was she kneeling so close to the edge? She knew how far of a fall it was— The thought of any harm coming to her sent razor-sharp ripples of pain from deep within to the outermost nerves of my fingers and toes. It was a pain that could only be described as metallic—although I could not say why—and the taste of dirty copper erupted upon my tongue. I jolted towards her with all of momentum I could muster to pull her away from the drop, and I suddenly noticed that others were approaching, too. The electric orange of the sunset faded into grey as my eyes fell upon the tired faces of the crowd, and suddenly their emotions penetrated through some empathetic barrier to my chest, overwhelming me with a sense of loss as black as the night sky has stars. What was lost? I thought I could feel my heartbeat quicken, I thought I could feel a cold sweat leak out onto my palms.
       The winds picked up and gushed thick with moist evening air. The tiny droplets of water, which had been skimmed off the sea-top and whipped up in the whirlwind, dampened my hair and dampened my eyes. I blamed the wet wind as realization soaked into me like salt into warm bathwater—like eroding stone into the cushioning, comforting, cradling waves.
       My love's fragile body heaved violently with sobs, and I felt my insides torn back and forth with her as though my soul was sewn to hers with twine. Each thump her lively heart beat—rebelling against the commands of deeper passions than living—sent ruptures up her spin and sought release through the wailing cries that ravaged her throat.
       My heart sunk like a stone for her. My soul shattered into pieces as small as the sand. I was the stone, eroding into the waves. I was the salt in the hot water that urged its condolences on her summer-speckled skin. I was the darkness that eclipsed every sun that inhabited her now dark eyes. And somehow, as I was each of these thousand things and more, I was softly swayed to a consent-less sleep, between bedrock pillows of shining crimson, on the evening waves below.
       And I know now, the droplets of water were not on the wind; though my damp soul, for a lifetime, will wander this slope—enchanting each gust with the whispers of youth—with nothing to gain but this desperate hope: that she will always feel a sense of love, as if it were tied to her soul with twine.

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