If guilt was a house, I’d burn it down.
if the soft sands of a beach were the hands of a man I loved,
he would be middle aged, embracing the chapters of adulthood he burned away years ago.
Each wave breathing towards his ankles; webbings of his painted toe nails would catch the love notes left by every swarm bubbling around his thighs.
Kissed by naked currents timidly calm by the close presence of his yellow eyes.