Games

Games

Oh, baby.

Yours is a most dangerous game.
How you comb through my hair with a breeze,

A grand display of affection as it is a simple gesture.

And as I tiptoe closer,
You pull me in with one graceful sweep.

I’m drunk on the laughter that churns from deep within me.

Collapsed on your banks in a heap,

I carefully trace my initials, knowing very well they’ll disappear by sunrise.
You see, the sand in Santa Monica doesn’t stick to you like it does back on the East Coast.
Oh no. 
It parts with you the moment you’ve had enough.
Without so much as an objection, it seems to say: No, don’t worry.
I won’t cling to your clothes and make a mess of your shoes. 
Your car. 
I won’t terrorize your home with any memory of me in the meantime.
Go.
Go back to wherever it is you came from.
Because while you’re there.
I know you’ll miss me so bad, you’ll yearn for me. 
And my buttery rays of sunshine.
That warm your face.
And heart.
My dear, while you can wash the salt off your skin, you’ll never part with me completely.
I am the tide that carries life through your veins.
I am the cadence that leaks through the delicate corners of your eyes.
Enjoy your moments of joyful rebellion.
We’re all too much the same.
I have a funny feeling.
I know you’ll be back.