The lake was lovely, dark, and deep, the promises promised in Robert Frost’s poem lurking somewhere just below the surface. They were tangled in the water lilies and spread with the algae on the slimy surfaces of the stones that created a mosaic on the floor. A gentle hand found my gentle waist, an ever softer fingertip rested against my parted lips. I could taste the memory of your tongue on mine. I could feel your hand pulling me closer and tangling in my dress as you kissed me. We were so young, my darling. So young and out at midnight sneaking onto private lakes to skip stones.
You were cigarettes and moon dust. You were charm and fury and mine. You spun me round and we stood facing the lake, standing together and pressing our bodies together until the only barrier was the air. Hands clasped, we skipped stones caked in neon across the water, your voice whispering snatches of old tunes into the curve of my neck. The stones pulsated on the lakebed, a beating heart of the Earth, the beating heart of us. In our now frozen and forsaken town, the heart is beating too still, too faint for the ears of strangers. With you far from me, and I in my bed, I still feel our hearts combining and diving below the murky depths of the past.