Junked up.

Cast upon the shore

Like a rusty old coke can

My car looks like junk.

 

A funny one this week, sort of.

My Ocean, My Lover

There is a slight change in pressure as I step off the elevator. If the roar and whipping wind along the corridor does not given away the truth of what lay ahead, the white remnants of the day along the floor does. 

The breeze whips around the corner of the passageway and the hours and miles of driving begins to melt away. Some say they can smell the air, but for me it is the feel of it, reaching for me, and wrapping around me—welcoming arms pulling me onward.

I turn the corner and see the palm trees sway and the rise of sand hiding what I have been aching for these long months. My pace quickens toward what is there at any pace I chose. It has been waiting for me for a long time. She is ever patient.

The smile spreads across my face and the yearlong pent up stress escapes. The metal gate clangs shut behind me, the final barrier between the two of us. I hurry along the tiled pool area of the hotel toward the wooden steps leading to my sandy salvation. 

My sandals slide with a slight and reassuring twist on the wooden steps. Proof I am on the right path. Then I see her, moonlit rolling surf on her way to meet me, and calling me. “Hurry, it’s been too long.” 

I slip off the leather that separates my feet from the cool sand. Each particle massages muscles that ache from too long without her touch. I ease my way forward. The breeze moves my shirt and blows in my ear like a lover that one wishes they had. Happiness is within reach, my feet step onto surf pounded sand, damp from millennia old waters.

Man in night surf

The roar in my ears is like a lullaby drowning out all other sounds, or like the call of rejoice of one to another at a much longed for embrace. Perhaps that is why I love her so. She covers me with the first touch. Gentle, warm fingers wrap around my legs and urge me onward.

 I walk a few more steps, close my eyes, and feel the sand wash away as I begin to sink into her. With each grain of sand and each retreating surf, another negative memory drifts away. Another glowing thought enters. 

My shoulders slump, tension releases, muscles tremble. Yes.

Some love the sound of music to relieve their life, some a massage, and some art. For me the music of the surf, the massage of sand sifting and the art of the moon on the waves take it all away. Lovers come and go, but for me the ocean always returns and welcomes me whenever I need her. 

“Welcome home, Ronovan, I’ve missed you.” I open my eyes, and see the moon on the waves and let the rhythm drift me away.

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