untitled.

Water licks at my heels – relentless,

the horizon stretches a morning

yawn: wide, gaping, sleep-crusted,

I grab for coffee, fingers outstretch

to yours, tantalizingly out of reach.

You’re good at teasing me –

at pocketing information to read

later: when the sun has peeled itself

away from the horizon, like when you

saunter towards the sea-spray,

while I warm my hands in your

towel-dent. Tasting remnants

of your organic toothpaste on

my lips – brined like a margarita glass –

your silhouette refracts in whitecaps.

Salt in your hair.

Waves at your feet. Rest

of the world: obsolete.