Beaches

Your tossed shirt
brings the scent
of cool rain, salt air.

You move quietly,
thinking I sleep,
but my desire

this night is a tsunami
and so I tug down
your jeans, pull you
into remembrance
of depths we have visited
on other such nights,

nights when I'm
convinced Neptune,
himself, sits,
waterwings at the ready,
on our bedroom floor.

Other times we would
play first, splash
in the tides,
giggle, tickle,
but tonight...

tonight, my hands twine
seaweed through your hair
and we dive until
dawn finally beaches
and, gasping for air,
we sleep.

Pris Campbell
(c)2003

Published in Erosha