Fingers of froth feel their way into the shore’s sea-soaked cracks,
Slip, slap, shiplap overlapping conversations between ocean and cooled lava,
In the air above the waves, music blurs with the chatter of parading peas and hens,
Sun-baked scents of forgotten herb beds on dry mountain terraces fuse with expensive oils,
Floating fragrances that signal the beautiful ones are passing by.
A timeless procession.
She sat opposite an empty chair at the crowded bar.
No semblance of discomfort dressed her shoulders,
Peaceful solitude was her drinking partner.
Her glance invited company, her smile confirmed the invitation.
And when she spoke.
Her words, passing across the table, opened him up like the first lines of that book.
Each line a new verse, page then chapter.
He knew too.
Her eyes glowed like a full moon’s blush billowing from behind inky pillowcase clouds.
Punctuation sat poised in the look between them: what had just happened?
Something. Something out of nowhere. Something unexpected, unseen, but felt.
Felt like fire fingers igniting the grate of long dead hearth.
Streams of words fell, tumbling like spring mountain waters,
Tributaries of conversation broke banks and merged.
Why? Why here? Why now? Why her? Why him?
High iced walls melted, a drawbridge fell,
Vulnerability took flight on a gull’s wing.
And only one touch.
Cheeks of cool skin with a saline tint forever stain his lips.