Seafoam and Ash

A girl once told me she was conceived by the ocean. "By" not "beside" – her skin was the color of new seafoam and you could follow her green eyes into the deeps and drown there. She had a soft, papery voice that sighed in and out and dark hair that cascaded past her shoulders like dried seaweed.

She was born along the sea strand, where the ocean met solidity and pounded it into tiny grains.  Perhaps she was delivered in a clump of seaweed or crawled her way out of a pink conch shell and learned to swim before learning to walk. She carried an air of calm serenity that rippled around her like an aura wherever she went, content to flow instead of fight.


I met a boy born from the fire tailing comets rushing through the atmosphere. His hair was a shock of red swinging upward and he lit up entire rooms with his presence. He always spoke a little too fast, the words rushing from his mouth like sparks off a firecracker, flickering and dancing.  His golden eyes flashed when caught by what he loved and he loved the world.

He carried himself like a modern Prometheus; confident, bringing an inner glow into dark places. Blazing into the inferno, he dusted the ash off the shoulders of his black jacket and flaunted a cocky grin at whatever situation he landed himself in.


I once knew two people as different as could be, and they were perfect together.