august

lost in the memory

I can see us now, caught up in it all: as soon as the sun went down, grabbing a bottle of your parents' best wine, walking down to the beach arm-in-arm, heads tilted up at the stars burning bright above the sea.

The night was ours, always ours - easy and freeing, like taking a lungful of fresh air.

In the memory: I breath in deep as I step, barefoot, from the concrete promenade to the soft sand. My toes, nails painted a deep blue like the ocean, sink in. I wiggle them childishly. The beaded anklet I bought from the hippie beach kiosk yesterday glints in the orange glow of the streetlight behind us.

I turn to you, and the grin you're wearing gives me butterflies, like the very first time. My abdomen feels tight, my face hot. My hair falls loosely down my back as you face me and pull the braids free.

I grin back at you as we walk a little nearer the shore, and find a spot to sit. Snatching the wine from your hand, I quirk a brow, holding the bottle up. "To moonrise on beaches,"

I take a swig, the wine lining my throat. I grimace slightly - it's the first time I've touched alcohol, and it still tastes bitter. You shake your head, laughing, as I pass the bottle to you. "And," you say, "to summer vacation,"

"Mmm," I agree, running my tongue over my tingling lips. From the corner of my eye, I catch you watching.

All of a sudden, you leap up, tugging me with you. I manage to just about right the bottle and stop it spilling into the sand, before I'm dragged, laughing, towards where the waves lap at the shore.

We take turns running towards the water, slipping, dipping our toes into the cool sea. The night is quiet except for our childish squeals, the world still except for our skittering up and down the shoreline and the hushed drawing in and out of the moon-led tide.

My pale blue skirt looks white in the starlight, and its hem flutters in the gentle breeze, reminding me of the curtains back at the house.

We stumble away from the water when we've splashed each other enough, both smelling of seaspray and sweat. We trade wine and whispers, and before long, our hands begin to roam, like they always do.

By now, it's a ritual, a routine, a rhythm: t-shirts slide up over heads, fingers trace shapes on backs, stomachs. I dive my fingers into your hair; yours find the hook of my bra.

After, we lie on the sand, staring up at the sky. I think there are more stars here than I have ever seen in my life. I think about how old they are, all that they have seen. People always say, if these walls could talk... but in this moment, I think, if those stars could talk...

You push onto your elbows, lean back, cross one bare foot over the other. Your hair falls over your eyes in that same effortless way. From beneath your curls, your eyes find mine. I shift, laying my head in your lap. I lace my fingers together on my stomach, feeling my breaths go in and out like the tide; you lace yours through my hair.

I can see it now: my hopeful gaze, your fleeting promise of forever.