I watch you as you rinse the sand from your shorts, playfully revealing the hidden whiteness of your skin, vulnerable as the moon.
On Tuesday, July 2
There was no need for sentiment in those summer days. We were new to love untested by time.
On Wednesday, July 3
Certain of your summer delight, I discovered you unaware taking it all for granted all the privileges of beauty.
On Thursday, July 4
The Ocean, rises in a swell of desire only to vanish with the receding tide of a late afternoon, as I sit solitary on the sand.
On Friday, July 5
We speak in the language of silence. I can no longer recall your face but will speak your name across an ocean.
On Suturday, July 6
Droplets of water on your skin, I yearn to touch you, soft as a petal.
On Sunday, July 7
The summer comes slowly and is quick to go, and we remain suspended in a state of grace. Early to late, morning through evening, our summer, without time or identity. |
