The boat and the lighthouse
She longer for his gaze to land on her,
To set off the lady bugs to fly around in her stomach,
Triggered by the odor of spring’s blossoms.
A light tower’s red light hovering over the small little wooden boat on the horizon’s bend.
Its bright light beaming over the black seas night breath.
The waves breaking in rhythmic synchrony with her in- and exhale, against the stone walls separating the light tower from his secret admirer.
To the light tower the boat was hardly detectable, but to the boat the lighthouse was the only object existing in the darkness.
His glory enlightening her path.
She wanted the lighthouse to recognize the corky beauty her mahagony walls hid from public eye, the secret stability this fine type of wood ensured, the warmness inside the red timber fort, cozily moving with the waves, as if part of an old landscape painting. The kind one can attain for some coins in the small second hand store, filled to the top with stuff of all kinds, the one she always visited when in London.
The little cave in the underground providing a similar feeling as the wooden nutshell did, the smell of moist timber filling her nostrils, so piercingly that it numbed her senses.
She felt as transparent and invisible in midst of all these left back relicts, colorful memories, once important props supplying the moments with scenery, as she did when the red radar of the lighthouse, moved on from enlightening her in its programmed patterns, his gaze only stroking her lightly, then moving forward, taking no obvious notice of the little fighter in the storm.
Oh how she longed for his gaze to be fixed on her,
Just once, so he could drown in the reflection of the dark water in her tiny bull-eyes.
Sensing the intensity and magnificently exciting danger this brief contact would entail. Even across the sea, across those many waves separating the two anonymous lovers the tension that would till the air caused the clouds to break and allowed the moon to shine through.
Now the black blanket made an appearance like silk, as if nothing and noone could be raging below the smoothness of this particular surface.
Out of the small crack on the left side of the mahagony float one little lady-bug made her way into the fresh night air, its wings gliding through the heavens like a knife cutting through butter.
There it flew, dancing in between the finde rainbow layers of the atmosphere.
As the boat moved closer the longing became of almost begging kind. The lady bug soaring on, leaving behind her family and friends, her whole colony, to find hope in the world.
After hours of flying it needed a rest. Her wings became weak and the sudden lack of wind had made the effort to continue the journey, much harder.
Attracted by the light the ladybug landed on the windowsill of the lighthouses top window; from there she could clearly recognize the origin of her journey,
The red shape in the spotlight of the moon.