bleu tourmenté

I could write about the forest, I could write about the mountains and I could write about some desert somewhere far away. There is one thing that is certain; I would write about you. I sit down and stare at my screen, the blank page, and I try to think of some story about a traveling salesman that got bitten by a vampire one long and lonely night, and this would seem interesting. I would work up my plot twists and fake names to suit my characters, this would also be nice. I would even talk about the salesman’s pretty wife and three children; this would give the story depth.

Before my fingers would start tick tocking on the keys like some crazy mixed up clock, I would know that you lurked there.

You are there in my fingertips with each letter that I strike. You are there in my wrists as they grow tired from anchoring my hand against the keyboard. You are there, always there and sooner or later, you will be woven into my story whether I like it or not.

I have no idea why you are always there, in my mind, in my fingertips. A part of me wants to flush you away and a part of me will never let that image go. I have a picture painted on my mind of the way your eyes were and the way you looked at me. I held nothing back from you and I could see you there too, the uninhibited you. I remember that and I cannot make it go away.

I think I will write of great waves on the ocean which plummet onto the shore as the big moon shines above. A surfer rides in on the midnight waves and crashes just before reaching shore. I watch him walk upon the sand, his brown toes digging into the soft cushion of the beach, his brown body glimmering in the moonlight. I sit on the shore and I watch him walk near to me. I smile because he is a fine specimen of a young man. His hair is dark, his eyes glimmer in the remaining light. As he sets his surfboard on the soft sand, he gets onto all fours to climb toward me. I giggle just a little and realize that I have taken you out of my story and it really worked this time. I smile and coax the young man to crawl up to me. I see him get closer and closer, ocean water drips from his dark locks.

“ It’s midnight, Cinderella.”

In moments, I feel the knot in my throat and the man disappears. I can still see the ocean slapping the shore and its turbulence pulls me back to reality. I hear the roar of the ocean as it grows louder. I realize that it is only the train going down the track about a mile from my house. The room is dark and I am still typing my story. I think it was the one about the traveling salesman…or wait, maybe it was the one about the handsome young surfer. I just know that you are there on the beach beside me and I have not turned to look at you.

“You think I am crazy, don’t you?”

 A tear seeps from the corner of my eye and slides down my cheek. The pain is horrible and all I can do is keep typing.