Don’t falter, there’s a yawning,
feathers caressing some cotton
woven wall between us–what happens

when you break silence? Floods,
spaces for shiny skin to cradle in–
or fire, temptation to lick the flame

so warm and radiant, what we need
so desperately inside us… She’s
building drip castles now, wet sand

and sea weed. But her careful hands,
so achingly tender, coil ocean’s salt
with green tendrils. As they slip below

the horizon, she doesn’t mind, 
keeps rebuilding the collage on shore:
There’s nothing felt but the monsoon

seeking her veins through ebbs.
The ritual begins at sundown,
he brings the darkness and rushing

threads of tension, she tries
to hold off as long as the tide is low–
let’s the surf crash over.


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