Her sandal straps sat as thrones on her heels, embellishing the sand that clung close to her skin. Her smile seemed painted on by some distant relative of an old famous painter. And her hair it was a mixture of ocean and tears. Tangled in hopes and last chances.
Stubborn.

Never brushed, never tamed.

It was only then, sitting on that porch, tasting that sweetest lemonade, could she ever think about anything besides her summer.

Of course she could, but she never quite did. She was one of those loose cannons.

Unpredictable.

Then again why would anyone hate her for it? She was so new, so fun, so much potential for anything at all. She was wild and free.

Everyones first kiss and last dance were delicately braided into the gallery of bracelets strung on her arm.

Heartbreak and loneliness was etched in blues and blacks on her hands. Tattoos of worn adventure printed on her fingertips.

Her arms, so easy to fall into, so hard to let go of.

With every kiss she pulled you deeper into her world until you were drowning with affection. Affection for her, for you, for love

And you tried, you really did try writing her letters, telling her how much you missed her. But life got in the way. All good things come and go and she was here but now, now she is gone.

And perhaps one day you'll find her again. Old and frail like all great lovers end up you will laugh about how the two of you used to run barefoot on the streets of your city. How you would kiss her in the rain.
  And perhaps then, she will love you.