I can hold about six good size stones in my hands before they become unmanageable when I start to run. I'll run, then pause, and throw as far as I can as if my momentum carries on into the sky, sailing as stones do so unnaturally in a flight to the moon. I hope they reach their destination, cracking the surface of blue cheese, diggin deep inside the crest until it finds a soft warmth to sleep in. The ripples swim into the shore and the rest of the stones skip over the surface of water, forming small rings of moon light over a blanket of ocean. Small diamonds shine on the sand as we carry along. It's a funny thing to close my eyes and see the city and think of how in the city I closed my eyes to be here, in this moment. It is all happening right now. I can feel it happen as my feet sink into moist sand. I can feel it in the anchor of our hands holding each other, and the roll of jeans around my knees. Our lungs are full of salt from the sea, and our pockets are selling the beach sand for souvenirs. What do I tell you once we have ran away? What more can I note or suggest, when all that I want is this right now, this everything, all of it; the palm leaves upon moonshine, the sea breeze hitting us with a coolness that doesn't steal warmth but reminds us how warm we are inside, and the orange glow of a lone streetlight looking over this small piece of our lives. There is no story to say on this account, nor a photograph to prove of this moment, and a single stone or a jar of sand cannot speak of how a perfect moment can turn into a dream-like existence beyond words, or even understanding. Right here, right now I keep telling myself, and before I know it I look into your eyes and its over. Just. Like. That.
I'll try and try to think of how to thank you for it all. Because without you this is just a pretty picture.