Slowly but surely the numbers come back to me and with the digits the realization that makes me simultaneously laugh and sadly sigh; that something that I should be trying to forget for years is the one thing coming into view through the frittering haze of inordinate drinks. I glance towards my phone and find twelve scattered cracks gazing from the useless screen back at me. The vista in front is still skimpily covered with darkness and through it comes the moans of the sea as the waves wet the shore with lingering caresses, eternally reluctant to let go; much like my absolutely lonesome heart on a beach barren of another waking soul.
Lonesome and also, I must say, craving for a long unheard voice. There must be something stirring in my soul that I feel plethora of memories rising up through a depression in my chest and watering my eyes. I shrug it off and shrug it off again, until nostalgia overcomes me and I find droplets falling upon my palm on which I rest my face.
“Hey”, I hear her jarring voice and feel the gentle shift in the aura around me; the slightest of touch upon me so starkly reminiscent, so beautifully aching. The breeze from the sea must be cold and that makes her hug herself.
“How long has it been?” she asks.
“About two years”, I say.
“No exact number of days this time?” she chuckles.
“I figured the setting was dramatic enough”. That makes her laugh softly and the sound of it pours through my ears and reawakens the forgotten slumber of remembrances. Her arm slips through mine and the inevitable scent of her hair perfumes every particle of my being.
“We should have come to sea once”, the thought emerges from my throat.
“We should have done many things”
I tremble at the stabs of time and find the staggering pace at which it moved desperately cruel. The first lights of the morning have begun to pierce through and the silhouette of the horizon moves in illusions towards the depths of the ocean. I take a deep breath of the rusting wind and look around at the emptiness that makes me ache and blissful at the same time. Perhaps, melancholy is the poetic lover of solitude.
“Are you alright”, she asks
“I miss you”, I say.
“I miss you, truly and absolutely. Like the first time I felt my heart break.”
She sighs and places her head upon my shoulder. I shiver and let the remembrances of her gentle pressure against me wound me. I don’t know whether love is as abstract as a silhouette of a woman’s body against the nebulous darkness of a room or something as tangible as all the beauty of the world flowing underneath my skin.
“I am at all the places you lost me”, she says. “Won’t you come get me?” The sound of her voice mingles with the coveting music of the ocean and as the sky above lightens up with the faint glow of vicinal yearnings, I feel her dissolving in me, bit by bit, until all that is left is a mist in front of my eyes and the fragrance of all the days and nights spent in writing verses on body and soul.