She'd always been at home in storms. The wind and rain made her feel clean and new. Even when things twisted and broke, and wet leaves stuck in places they don't normally go. The sea is like a storm, crashing, moving, surging, changing. The beach you walked on once does not exist after the next tide, the grains of sand having been changed, down the way, out to sea. Shells and glass grinding down, shiny in the moon light. A night time storm by the sea...
She walked along the edge, small waves slapping at her feet, no gentle lapping here. A pull into deeper waves. The wind tangling her hair, salt on her skin, electricity in the air. And she remembered....
An early summer night, an uncharacteristic wind, standing outside with the very air tearing at her. Leaning into him, a port she never thought she'd find. Gentle kisses in a hard wind. A shelter. Warmth. Strength. The night she knew that this was magic, that he was magic. Every one has poetry inside of them. Some have words, some have music, some can draw poetry with ink and paint and graphite. His poetry was stillness. Languidity like a summer evening sunset. He was fireflies and freshly cut grass. The warm smell of stone after a rain shower, stone strewn with jasmine petals and street light reflections. Starry evening swirls in the heavens. He was calmness and heat at the same time. The breath before the storm. Distant thunder. Lightning flashing on the horizon. She wanted that moment back. To tell him he was magic. To feel that warmth. She was the storm, wishing for her port.
Her feet left momentary prints in the sand. Temporary, barely a dent left seconds after the flesh was gone. The water slightly warmer than the air. She imagined the magic she had lost, not her own, but it made her feel stronger. His lighthouse flash no longer on the horizon. The tears wouldn't stop. Great, indelicate sobs. Undainty. Unseemly. She hadn't expected this much pain. She had her own magic. A thousand times a day she thought of his smile, his eyes, his hands. The feeling of being sheltered in his warmth. She almost reached out. Sharing a message to picture his smile. But his turning away was absolute, it seems. No more smiles in her direction.
Lost without a map, only the edge of the sea and land as a marker, and even that moving as she watched, each wave pulling slightly further away, the tide yearning for the moon. Every time she thought it might be okay, the sobs ripped from her again and again and again. She screamed into the wind until blood flecked her lips. She looked at the moon and wished it closer. The storm within and the storm without raged.
Alone, she clutched in her hand a list of names, those gone to the moon before her. Those whose loss still haunted her. Those who she missed, like she missed the wind. Those she missed like she missed her port. Those she still hadn't learned to live without. She said their names, one by one, like a prayer. Please. Please help me. She faced the silence. The raging white noise silence of the storm.
The ocean called. The moon called. The wind called. The people, they were silent.
Wind, rain, salt, the pull of waves at her hem. Tear stained.
{I know it's melodramatic. None of the words are right. I really do feel like everyone is overtired of me and I've overstayed my welcome. I can't reach out. I wish I could. Say hello, I will answer. Tell me something you like about me, maybe. A memory that makes you smile. Yes, I'm getting professional help, but I could still use a friend or two. It's not getting easier. Please tell me there's something worthwhile about me. This isn't anyone's fault but mine. Mine alone. This is a hard enough ask.}
