The black waters crash against the old rocks that stick up slightly from the waters edge. Wave upon wave splash higher and higher into the darkened sky. Warm winds blow against her bare breast, tan against the already brown palm tree. She leans against it, stripped entirely of her innocence, she has a seal of perpetual gothic attitude. Her shortly cut wet hair is curled, falling slightly beneath her shoulder blade, brown in nature, but blackened by the wetness of the ocean. In that instance I found myself far off from her, feet firmly planted in the cold sand from wiggling my toes. She had in fact noticed me, noticed me watching her. She stammered not one inch to hide herself, which for the first time made me blush light pink in the face. It happened to bring alive a certain thought in me, one question that has not been quenched since that midnight. Why is it that I'm inlove with the idea of being inlove? This beautiful girl before me could very well be like the rest.
