this is not a true story. there is no fact in the characters played this evening.

i want to tell a story though. the problem is that i can't remember how it starts. nor can i recall how it goes. i'm just sure there's a story.

there was the moon. i know that. i can see it most distinctly. a phantasmal orb hanging on black satin. no strings to hold it or keep it still. just the trust of air and space and little children looking up with eyes just as white and wide. that moonlight, that winter light. the only source of light that is so piercingly cold it lends to couples clinging closely to another and inciting warmth. a cold that leads to warmth. the contrast of pure glacial white against pitch. all the opposites existing at once.

so there was the moon. and the water. listening now i can hear it. the ocean roll and roar that creeps and crashes burrowing her watery hands deep into sandy shore. we dive into liquid and she into solid. she tends her rock garden, pulling the most shimmering specks and finest flecks to the top then ebbs back to examine her work, taking what she dislikes with her into miles of azure corduroy, gentle fluid hills and valleys reflecting the cool midnight moonlight.

there was a hand in mine. soft skin, strong intention. like he was afraid that if he held it any tighter the truth of his thoughts would be known through the coursing of his blood so briskly beating just beneath. that or it was the tenderness of careful love masking the pounding possessiveness of passion. but it wasn't just a hand it mine, like the hands you holding during hymns. the hands that lay flat in yours. no, there was intention in the shape of his hand. it formed to mine, cupping, enclosing, imprinting on mine, hoping to leave its design, mark or warmth or scent there long after the clasp opens.

i wish i knew the rest.