Whispers flick the skin,
brushes of touch skimmed
off the oily surfaces of
shoulder and thigh.

Your hand in a holding
pattern above my face,
reclined and receding into
the Earth’s crust.

The wind picks up,
easing off the heat,
until the sand stings
and we can see only
our outlines dissolving
in each other’s eyes.

Eyes that water and flow into the
unsteadying tide, the hefty paddles
of water stroking us out of our depths
onto a coral street corner
where we are alone, while the stars
fizzle above our hung heads.

We rest on the pavement’s buoyancy,
feel the lava currents in our bones,
grip our softer edges,
hoping for a hold.

As we test the pull of gravity between us,
we are bloated driftwood, churned
on the static waves that clutter the shore
and shadow the sea’s whispering.