Passion

Every time I think of the word “passion”

I remember your breasts rippling but in slow motion,

undulating like waves with every immersion,

as if I’m standing with my feet in your ocean,

waves sliding over me,

again, again, again,

pulling me farther, deeper with each repetition,

drenching another inch with salty intoxication,

and suddenly I’m all the way in, and I can’t swim.

I’m drowning in mouthfuls of saline inebriation,

lungs burning with anticipation until I can’t hold it in,

exploding in spasms as everything darkens.

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And now as I stand with wet toes in the sand,

watching the infinite, indifferent ocean,

I long for a rip current to thrust me there again,

but my legs seem frozen.

I descend as grains of sand roll back to where they began.

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