After one solitary foxtrot
of the world around the sun,
I was taken by a gentle storm
to a secret bonfire
between a forest and an ocean

wherein nobody knew me
but the briny taste of the breeze,
the tight embrace of the nightfall,
and the familiar depth of your dimples.

Neither of the broken constellations
nor the remorseless rocks along the shore
were a picture perfect. None of the
language of apologies concurred.

But the sand was alluring us to stay
with the gestures of our lips gambling
an invitation to be sewn together;
a sin so unforgivable yet so prudent.