Her Ocean

No one knows where the child came from. She was a stranger, unidentifiable. She did not talk, she just was. She never moved, but to turn the pages of her book. And yet when I sat down next to her I knew that she was real. That she lived a life of wonder.

Many said I was mad to spend my days sitting with her on a park bench, watching her read. I understood her more that most and yet I did not know her. I imagined what it might be like if she looked up from her book and smiled. So I waited. Long winters and early springs passed us by. But she still did not look up.

Soon I found that I wasn't breathing. Realized that I hadn't eaten or breathed or needed any of those normal, human, requirements since I sat down next to her. And only then did I see her.

Her face had changed. She was more beautiful than any human ever could be. With large, slanted eyes the color of an ocean sunset. Her skin, shiny and smooth, was as dark as the deepest depths of the sea. And her hair. It shimmered in a cascading waterfall of warmth, a sparkling silver, tinted with all the colors of coral in the sun.

She had a look about her of wisdom, as if she had met time herself and had been gifted with the tales of the earth, and its struggles and triumphs. She held out her hand to me and I took it.

I was eleven then.

Years later I have grown into my own captivating, immortal beauty, and I sing my love to the girl as I lure the men who would soon be at the bottom of her ocean.