A beach is behind her, perfectly placed. The bamboo near the shore is hollow but the night is full. The washing waves recede in a cadence of splashes and frothy foam that reflect the color of the night. She holds a seashell up to her ear, comparing the crashes in the shell to the crashes on the shore.
And you must understand the night to understand this moment.
And must know the girl to know this song.
And you must have walked on the beach with her before, the deep night kind of walk, where the stars seem to spotlight all her moves and the flaking curls of the sand conform to her feet and even the waves hesitate to break on the shore for fear of disrupting the perfect prints she has left behind.
And you must have felt that wind. The one skipping through her moondress, making all the indentations with its torrents you would make with your hands.
And you must have kept the numbers to her, those fives and nines and twos and ones that ring her into a voice on the phone.
And her laugh…have you heard it…falling….rising…triggering the best of you…
Turn away this writing for another day if you know her not. Because everyone deserves this picturesque moment- the girl holding the seashell to her ear, ravishing goes the night, and you comparing the crashes on the beach to the crashes of your heart.
Her name lingers on the edge of speech but the moment is to0 pure for words. The crystal ships out at sea encourage with their lights, the girl encourages with her arms. She sets the seashell on the ground, realizing where the real sound comes from. The night gives you privacy, steps away, pinpoint stillness shrunken down to a kiss.
But low tide comes. A strong current creeping up around the girl. Seaweed and barnacle fighting for her affection. The tugging comes and the separation comes and the treading water fumbles your feet and she is taken down the line and past the shores, to the places with ladders and climbing things for climbing people, but your view was always meant for sea level and not for lofty heights, so you watch her float away, hoping, like the sun and moon and revolutions of the earth, that she is ruled by the sea and the high tides, which bring the wandering waves back no matter how far they recede into the endless depths of a world surrounded by the night.