The surface of the water

Was rippled with a seemingly

Endless series of tiny waves

Like the goosebumps that

Elaborately covered

The flesh of your

Naked thighs.


The sound of the sea

Hungrily kissing the white sands

Of the shore.


The faint whispers of the wind…


The afternoon was pregnant

With poetry

But all the poetry it bore

Was pregnant of you



Of which there was no escape.