SLAM!

I wouldn't need any lingerie, and satin sheets would go to waste, with the water but a step or two from our bedside. We'd awaken to waves welcoming the rising sun, the blushing sky, and breakfast in bed. Your ears are my favorite treat, tender, sweet, bite sized. Goose flesh rises down your neck, back, arms, and you rise with the sun.

On the beach, or as close to it as we can get from our bed, we spend the morning reinventing one another. Your touch, delicate, mine eager and welcoming. Our adventure would last at least a day, though we'd never leave the bed, and by sunset we'd be spent, asleep, draped across one another, too exhausted to move.

Up the middle finger, across the bridge, exchanging hands. A three-hour journey made to never leave the room, to not experience the lake by touch or taste, but we are wet all the same. We have swam in each other, dipped our toes and our hearts in one another. I would that we could spend every morning to infinity, wrapped up in each other, ourselves, and together, here in the land of Saints.

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