The world is light on water
bright and high and hot
like SoCal
(or that’s what you’d say if
you’d ever been
to SoCal)
with your skin two-weeks golden and the sea in your hair
and the sun over everything.
The sea in your hair
and his hands too,
his mouth against yours
and bodies burning.
The arch of your back curving into the question.
Your fingertips tracing the answer on skin.
Yes, my love.
My love, that’s right.