Flying flesh biting
mosquitos
buzz around secretly
strolling up our arms
and making a meal
from our salty sunkissed surface

we let them feast

for all we are aware of
is the sound of our skin
shifting to reveal
the simplest touch

and those mosquitos
could probably swallow our hearts
while we compose music from our eyelids
clinging eye contact
sparkling iris to iris

even the old willow is inspired
to offer a flirting notion towards the river,
skipping her branches near the edge
of the receding tide

at the sight of us