It was dark.
It was wet.
The bed, 30 degrees Celsius outside. My sweaty inner thights, as his hands slided on them.
I was light.
3 vodka tonics and a couple of colourful cocktails named exotically had been my lunch and dinner.
He was close, liying next to me. He was far, his eyes shut down.
I wish he had not noticed mine on him when suddenly awakening, proposing:
“Shall we walk down the beach?”
And that sounded like a necessity, I would have never replied something else but:
Proposing, proposal. Is that a wedding gazebo on the shore, surrounded by the rebellious ocean crushing on the rocks, the order of nature in the perfectly parallel waves folding under the moonlight reflection.
Could there be any more appropriate scenario than this?
But the wind was strong, enough to impede our thoughts from being expressed by vocals,
Who said they can hold promises?
And it was so dark, my thoughts sucked deep down, I almost got blinded by the moon when he exclaimed:
“Look how bright it is!”
And I was confused, because I knew it was the sun to be bright and not the moon itself; because I believed I could not hear his voice among the wind, and I was afraid I had missed something else now.
So I paid a lot of attention when he declared again:
“Look how close it looks, you can totally see it is a rock!”
And I saw then the moon’s surface and I saw myself walking on it,
With my thougts only,
As they seemed to be anywhere else