Prose
-> Expressive
The Tide
I am in love with a girl who smells like vanilla and the ocean.
My vision was so blurred and hazy with nerves the first time I ever saw her, that her eyes became two big chocolate moons, dispersing like a tide into the creases of her blushing face. The day we met, the seasons were changing from spring into summer, and as the sun tried desperately hard to fight the clouds for spotlight, I kissed her sugarcube mouth in between lazy, carefree words.
When we were at our peak, we spent weekends away, at a beach where everything was so quiet, all we could hear were the gulls in the craggy cliffsides. Everything was glowing and new and brilliant. I took her to a beach house where the walls were flaking grey paint and there was a constant smell of mildew. We covered the stillness with the sound of our mouths chomping on pancakes and glugging bottles of Bud Light until they were dry. I used to read to her and she would fall asleep in front of the fire we made with old newspaper and driftwood. The silence was our blank canvas, and she stippled our warm bodies with her laughter and her smile and her sounds. Her scale of sounds clinked together happily like concave shells, and I would find myself washed up at her shore, coloured head-to-toe in pleasure.
I remember mornings where slats of light came tumbling in from the window, and mornings where I woke in a nest of her warm cotton. Outside pellucid crests cracked over brown sugar sand, and her eyes would wince at the sound of giggling children, bubbles popping on their pink, chubby legs.
I treasure the time we spent horizontally, when we got into our favourite, most comfortable position in bed. She would bring her leg around my waist, we’d be so close that her face distorts, she would cradle my jaw in her hand, toe each other's ankles and breathe love into each other's lungs.
My vision was so blurred and hazy with nerves the first time I ever saw her, that her eyes became two big chocolate moons, dispersing like a tide into the creases of her blushing face. The day we met, the seasons were changing from spring into summer, and as the sun tried desperately hard to fight the clouds for spotlight, I kissed her sugarcube mouth in between lazy, carefree words.
When we were at our peak, we spent weekends away, at a beach where everything was so quiet, all we could hear were the gulls in the craggy cliffsides. Everything was glowing and new and brilliant. I took her to a beach house where the walls were flaking grey paint and there was a constant smell of mildew. We covered the stillness with the sound of our mouths chomping on pancakes and glugging bottles of Bud Light until they were dry. I used to read to her and she would fall asleep in front of the fire we made with old newspaper and driftwood. The silence was our blank canvas, and she stippled our warm bodies with her laughter and her smile and her sounds. Her scale of sounds clinked together happily like concave shells, and I would find myself washed up at her shore, coloured head-to-toe in pleasure.
I remember mornings where slats of light came tumbling in from the window, and mornings where I woke in a nest of her warm cotton. Outside pellucid crests cracked over brown sugar sand, and her eyes would wince at the sound of giggling children, bubbles popping on their pink, chubby legs.
I treasure the time we spent horizontally, when we got into our favourite, most comfortable position in bed. She would bring her leg around my waist, we’d be so close that her face distorts, she would cradle my jaw in her hand, toe each other's ankles and breathe love into each other's lungs.
