September 10, 2015
It began at the Silver Moon.
She was there in the red and white suit, water on her skin, the cat-eye glasses catching light. She did not move. She did not need to. The day arranged her. The sea finished the rest.
You lifted the camera slowly.
Already you knew.
The images would remain long after the hour had passed.
Some faces do that.
They stay where the body does not.
She waits
between tides,
half-awake
half-remembered.
Red umbrellas
tremble gently,
slow petals
of desire.
Salt tasted
like longing,
soft on
the tongue.
Her sign curves,
a silver
half-moon
dagger.
Pebbles warm
to touch,
holding quiet
affections.
Waves follow,
faithful, shy,
their voices
barely rising.
The ocean’s kiss
slides higher,
teasing shore
with breath.
And wanderers
step nearer,
spell-bound, willing
utterly undone.
Under the Silver Moon.
Later, when the heat thinned, she rose and walked away. No signal. No farewell. The beach kept its silence. Only the photographs held her.
Some moments vanish.
Others refuse.
V
If you wish to turn the forbidden pages, they are waiting in Nirvana.
