We’re alone, in solitude,
Just us and these waves, our loyal companions,
Turned white at the tips,
Singing our praises and rejoicing our joy.

Fingertips ignite at the sacred touch,
A burning so lovely--no trace of sorrow
Does singe the flesh or disrupt the iris
As it fancies your shimmer in the star-littered sky.

The tongue dances behind the quivering lips,
Delighted, thrilled, its surface coated in you,
The essence of your ivory teeth and upturned corners
Has come to rest in the spirit forevermore.

The moon, that marauding fool,
The only inquisitor at this place most holy,
Washes your cheeks in treacly summer light,
A heaven too glorious for the deepest of prayers.