The waves of a lake… ah, how they ebb and flow and flow and ebb. I’d give them my being if they would only more readily dissuade me. And all the more in the eve, when dusk thrusts spires of angel rays into the heavens, then withdraws them into the depths, as if all hope is meaningless.
The red-lipped lady in the azure dress lays in the cooling sand, close enough to whisper enchanting ribbons only lovers dare grasp, and I grab a cord, pulling as she moves farther from me. The warmth of her body escapes, leaving me with naught but a sand dollar, penny face-up, and a divested touch. Her whispers last long into the night, the temptress now tempest, undulating rhythmically, rapidly, ravenously in the twilight hours. I scarce can bridle my breathing, my heartbeat. On and on, stars spinning above, the deafening gasps leave little to the imagination, swelling to the grand aurora in fullest moon. Yet soon all fades, moistened skin cooling and drying, heaving sighs to punctuate the lull of placid waters.
And as dawn nears, the horizon outlined with promise of hope, all is silent and tranquil. So now, I rest, awaiting my dear lover once again. Call it chemistry, call it gravity… Nothing is so stirring as the magnetism of afterglow succumbing to Cimmerian lovers.