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
You
Of which there was no escape.