Never Never Gonna Give You Up

Walking the thin sidewalk of 13th Street, dusty grime, feathers, and food wrappers, I projected. Eyes on the clear rectangle of mountain scenery ahead, here atop the hill, the far wall marks the western front. Air funnels up through the street with fervor. Another second in a journey of length beyond human comprehension. A clear day, perfect for the falcon's journey. Rise and fall with the spirals of heat, spend a moment atop the nearest pine, amongst thousands of sappy firs—nothing but the sun above and everything below- 

A shoulder made contact with mine. Width for one, on this thin concrete, or two intertwined.

“Sorry.” Pale eyes, a fresh shag. The figure’s shape cutting through the tunneled air left a space that any other living being could sense. Space just inhabited. Likely a primal adaptation long since underdeveloped to a fleeting sensation. Now something explored or ignored, far from necessity. Breathing deep with intention, my mouth moved to form words, yet- the flannel billowed, reached for me- 

Flannel, the soft, warm, resilient comfort. Layers, brine, cologne, heat- my sinuses ablaze.

Kids running away from their lives. The beach, eighteen miles of coast, nestled into the peaceful marsh. Tidal life moving with each season, begging to be observed. Water holding the aroma of life or death. Death that gives life, life that leads to death. Stillness mixing fluidly with motion. The tides drew us in, pushed us beyond our patterns of childhood. Beaches and paths large enough to remain anonymous, small enough to feel like home. Among oysters, clams, and crabs, the unknown in layers of sediment. We tried to capture the moment each time, cameras hanging from our necks, eyes wide, we caught some things. We watched gulls fight and fly and scream. 

We hatched with spring. Underneath our own noses, behind closed doors, or after dark. A truly personal choice, not for anyone else, not career-oriented, no productive intention, just a magnetism. A mutual curiosity. Pure in moments like sky reflected across wet evening sand. 

What did we talk about? Sometimes I can’t remember. It was effortless chatter, infused with smiles. We knew how to laugh, and we knew when to hold our breath. Felt the limits lean and wane. Exercising trust. 

Resting my nose on your shoulder I breathed deep. Smiled. Your sun-marked skin, dirt holding to each pore, salt clinging to the soft surface. 

“I wish I could stay here forever,” you whispered. 

We talked about philosophy, we wanted to understand the world. What a sick joke. We talked about movies. Usually gorey ones. Made us feel alive, made us question the everyday routine, kept the blood pumping.

A sense for adventure- though it has a habit of staying just out of reach, I fear now it is inherently elusive. Toes in the mud, the sand, the water. Trekking up a hot mountain trail, cameras smudged with fingerprints. Any excuse to be outdoors we found. Any excuse to move. We traveled bridges no longer fit for use in search of the sunset. Entered homes with doors that no longer shut, wrapped in wooded silence. Ran across beaches, plunged through water, frolicked in rain. Even inside, the windows were flung open rain or shine. 

In my bed, with an arching attic window as a headboard drawing the elements in, we hid beneath flannel sheets. Curtains flying with the wind, walls sweating under a baking sun, pillows marking under sprinkles of rain. Our sweaty palms stuck like overripe fruit. My heart dripped up my throat, out of my lips, and into your mouth.

“Smells like thunder,” I mumbled.

 “Smells like you.” you grinned, pulling the blankets up to our ears. 

Unbridled emotion, a classic example of young love I suppose. There was a courage to it, however innocent. 

Air moist with life, ripe with salt. 

The chaos of the sea, raw with power or mute with reflection, always gave reason for layers. A borrowed flannel, photographed, worn, used, abused. Heavy with wet sand, dog hair, and crumbs. Life wasn’t simple, it was textured, raw, gritty. Perhaps that's the one thing that hasn’t changed. 

I remember the day we met in a hazy way. Alcohol consumption followed by a sporadic drive to the beach under stars, a polar plunge in January. Spirits to light our blood ablaze. Perhaps that's why we kept going back.

“I’m going in,” I said with a slight slur. 

“Let's go.” you matched, to my surprise. Layers shed to the sand it was a sprint. Two pale bodies in a vast blackened sea. Seconds encased in a cold grip, sweet sweet adrenaline. I don’t know if I even knew your name, but we saw each other for the first time. The moon watched us float. It was the first of many. 

Each bold dip we took built a necessary retreat to warmth. Towles and jackets were sacrificed, eventually each other. Tangled hair caught on buttons and zippers, we were bruised and marked. Dirty in all senses, clinging to our originality with all our strength. Fries, soaked with vinegar, scorched our tongues, stung our weathered lips. Surveillance was always heavy with seagulls and pigeons. 

“You are the most incredible person I have ever met.” You were always so honest. Unafraid to share a feeling, at least it seemed that way. Sometimes it took the words from my mouth, reduced me to an observer. A rare occurrence. 

We broke in winter. Selfishness, times incessant movement, life looming ahead. Sitting in a beachside parking lot, windows up to keep our dispute as private as possible when in public, we fogged up the windshield. Sad and angry. Before the piles of rocky wash-up, it all fell apart. I flew to a new ocean, with cliffs and whales and mighty arctic currents. You found your way, slowly, cautiously, your own nature. 

Moving with intention, as city dwellers learn to do, our paths lengthened and separated. The mountain window before me, continuing to grow in size, a stranger behind me, and you in my head for the first time in a while.