i still cry in the creases of my smile and i still lie within the dents of his dimples. this boy, no man, is nothing but a towel, tied between 2 coconut tress left to dry but instead catches the winds fury. he is the sort of man to get upset at his own intentions. he blames his gambling addictions on the sun rising and his tendency to yell at his children on the moons ever waning crescent. he is all the seasons summed up into one rawboned, unshaven, baggy panted, pockets empty mothers only disappointed son of a man. yet he still entices me. the way he shapes his lips to form words and the way his fingers dance across the piano and the way he says my name so softly so carelessly is enough to make me scream for help. i still sit on the beach with him. we still watch the water catch the staring suns eye and shimmer and glow until the moon decides to restore its inky dominance and again the sea responds just as it did before. there is no stopping this cycle. whether it be for grief and solitude or euphoria and synchrony, time never stops
