So, quick disclaimer: I am a bit of a romantic. I’m not one for the gushy stuff though. Valentine’s Day… Love letters… [lies. I wish my boyfriend would write me one] And all that jazz, but I feel like there’s always a good story behind love, lust, sex, and even heartbreak. I just realized how much of my work falls under that subject matter, by the way. Please don’t judge me *Chris Brown voice*. I’m convinced though that my past (and current) loves have influenced a lot of my writing. Shoo… The emotion has to come from somewhere. *shrugs*
I would say it all started in senior year of high school. My relationship then was the pits so I wasn’t all that creative then, but I was journaling all the bulls***. But anyway, I met this guy (should I mention his name?) at the Taste of St. Croix. -rewind- For those who don’t know, which is practically everyone visiting this here website that has no clue who I am, hi, I moved from New York to the US Virgin Islands in the sixth grade. THE TRUE PITS, but more on that in later posts. I was apart of the cooking class that entered the competition; we made desserts and stuff. I remember wearing a white T-shirt, teal cropped vests, and my favorite flared Gap jeans, but I remember my friend at the time, Brittany telling me my outfit was trash and basically swapping garments with me. The girl had extra clothes in her locker just in case she wanted to change outfits. In this case, save her friend from a fashion disaster. Okay. So, I didn’t know how to dress but you could NOT tell me my teal and highlighter yellow Air Force Ones weren’t on point and I was matching, if that counts. A for effort? Anyway, now I was dressed all girly and ready to be cute for the supposed guys that were going to be there. It was at Divi Carina Bay Resort. Nice and hot with air salty enough to choke you. Exaggeration? Maybe. Beats me how we ended up mingling with these guys, but I think they were in the competition too… I think with their job, another beach resort. [We won. Ha.]
It was him and his friend, flocking us schoolgirls. Apparently, we were the best things that came out of Taste of St. Croix. I wish I could remember what we spoke about, but what I do remember asking him how old he was and him saying 20 [a grown ass man in my 17-year-old eyes], and him asking me if I wanted to walk with him on the beach. At this point, it was pitch black outside and I just knew he was going to kidnap me so I kindly declined. He walked away, but his cologne stayed. Fast forward, my friend Kayla told me that he wrote his number on a paper and gave it to her. [It was for Brittany originally, but uh, yeah.] I saw him in K-Mart the following day and he said nothing! I was pissed because I walked in there with “house clothes” and busted hair. He gave me the nod and kept going. BURN. Eventually, we reconnected, but I’ll save that story for later. This was my first AND ONLY experience as a sidechick, I think. *cough* Good story. I’m telling you…
A LOT of lessons came out of that experience with him, but more importantly this poem. This poem also sparked something in me. Can’t put my finger on it exactly, but sis was spittin’. I think this poem is what set my Facebook Notes on fire too. I really thought I was doing something here. Scratch that. I was. Don’t cringe too much. I did.
He Slipped Through My Fingers Like Sand
That night was classic.
The crowd was drastic.
His looks were epic.
A legend.
Something you rarely see anymore.
Gorgeous fella.
Hair smooth and long like an eagle’s feather.
Body hotter than the weather.
Damn.
He slipped through my fingers.
He smiled.
He flirted.
He liked me although I was introverted.
I was being nonchalant.
To the obvious attraction we had and…
He slipped through my fingers… through my fingers like sand.
I see him in my dreams.
Although I make it something other than what it seems.
His name floats in the air and to my ear.
Damn.
I had the chance when he was near.
I wish I could bump into him… but when?
Good fellas rarely come around again.
I can’t believe I let him slip through my fingers…
Through my fingers like sand.
Til the beach bum flies,
Ella.
The Daily Ella 