We danced the dance of summer love,
Stolen glances on the ferry,
The not-so coincidental strolls up the beach
when I wished for you to appear,
and you did.
Tideline chats,
so charged by the ions of the crashing waves
that I thought I would combust.
Each time you were near,
the desperation of wanting to taste you grew.
I remember the lambent light when we left the bar and walked that beach
not touching,
but connected by the energy that young, virile, nubile bodies can create.
Stopping at the very familiar spot
where my lifeguard chair sat by day,
you leaned me against that sturdy sentinel
and cupped my face with your giant hands.
My heart stopped then.
And started again when your breath finally met mine.
This was a new dance now.
When you parted my lips
you entered my soul,
a place like a cavern that needed to be explored.
Every molecule of me was filled with you
and I dared to start to dream.
I believed that you felt that way too,
an attraction this strong
held some kind of magic.
It was a relief, really, to have crossed this bridge,
though my heart did pause every time I thought of you.
I knew you were a gypsy, of sorts
and that I could not possess you in any way,
except in fantasy,
and in time spent
always waiting for your ship to come back to port,
and living for each reunion as powerful as that debut on the beach.
Your job, the distance,
the convenience of an uncommitted relationship
should have made the news of your death
easier to bear.
I hadn’t thought,
I mean really thought,
about the impact of that moonlit kiss
until now…
– Lisa Sprague
