Out where the ocean beats its calm thunder against grainy shores of quartz and sand, she strolls, hands pocketed in a flowing gown of pearl-like luminance. I can see her with hair the color of sky's deepest night when it whispers to the sun's widow to masquerade as the sickle's light.
This is she. The one who knows me as I am though untouched is my skin. The world from which she steps pounces from mystery, announces her calm beauty like a willow tree bent to still waters.
In this unhurt place she takes her body to the shoreline listening for sounds beneath the waves that tell her what to do. How great is her dream? Will it take her across the sea? Does she hear my heart's voice before the translation?
She scoops some sand with her sculpted hands and like an hourglass the particles fall having borrowed time for a chance to touch her beauty. Her lips move with prayers of grace as she tells the wind her story; even the clouds gather overhead to listen. Her gestures multiply me with the sign of infinity, disentangled from all calculations, adorning her face with a poetry of tears.
I am summoned by her voice so clear it startles me. I watch her because I can. I know her because she is me. I desire her because she is not me.
In all my movement, in the vast search for something that will complete me, I have found her on this shoreline, her faint footprints, signatures of perfection that embarrass time with their fleeting nature. I am like the cave behind her watching from darkness, hollowed from tortured waves into a vault that yearns to say what she cannot resist. A language so pure it releases itself from my mouth like long-held captives finally ushered to their home.
She turns her head and looks past me as if I were a ghost unseen, yet I know she sees my deepest light. I know the ocean is no boundary to her love. She is waiting for the final path to my heart to become clear. And I am waiting for something deep inside to take my empty hands and fill them with her face so I can know the rehearsals were numbered, and all the splinters were signals to her heart.