Outmatched

The thing about love, and anyone who's ever known it could tell you this, is that as fast as it appears it can vanish. It's a thing of dandelion delicacy, born, borne and broken by the breeze. We chase after it like dogs on a beach, in pursuit of a thrown ball; into the rushing tide, tussled and wearied on the waves, until we are soaking wet and numb, crusted from head to toe with icy salt.

So it goes.

Yesterday we spent the day on the beach (Baker), by the bridge. It was lovely. We got the gang back together and sat on white sheets drinking beer, eating sandwiches, wasting time beneath blue skies. I'd forgotten how incredibly pacifying the sound of rolling waves can be. With the sleepiness of a small child I was cradled by sunshine, rocked to sleep by soft shushes, little lullaby whispers lilting from liquid lips. The only thing missing was a cold Corona and requisite lime. It was a glimpse of the good life.

Until I got home.

My tired footsteps fell heavy against the wooden floor which, crackling and popping like campfire, reminded me of those fleeting moments of forgotten youth where anything seemed possible; where everything had the haunting quality of a scary story which, if heard before bedtime, could keep you up all night counting undead sheep. I walked across the room, eager to lie in bed, and I sat down to greet my buzzing phone. It was here I found that my small promise of love, which I'd tucked away like a tooth under a pillow, had been lost. No matter how much I'd stoked them, the cruel winds of circumstance had extinguished the flame of possibility, forever.

Cinder. Smoke. Sulphur.

Matchbook dreams.