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The Ocean Is Not Pink
The ocean is not pink, yet when
she invites me sailing into the depths
of her salt waters it is the only
color I see. Cool breezes erect her
nipples waving beneath soft cotton
shirt, as she exhales a breath
that gathers her lips into sweet
honey on raspberries. Men would
dive into shark infested waters
to win one kiss. She is all that
beautiful. How blessed am I. She
smells like mint julep, and hints
of Chambord sipped after a glass
filled with French Champagne,
and although I do not drink, there
is always intoxication. Her hair thick
when it falls down like a drawbridge
as you enter her forest kingdom
to remove her silk panties more
enticing than a salacious strawberry
shortcake. Whipped cream coats
my imagination. Loving freely two
seaside Mermaids call out
to us, “Elysian fields straight ahead,”
emerging from the water to create
our bed. Yes give my regards
to the virgins who save their wealth,
savers of what? Picture these orgasms
exploding into a prism of obsessive
colors. Polychromatic passions
between thighs where one can
taste her in batches of lust -
before shooting off like a salvo
of spurting lava, oozing into a
vying muse where I meet her
again through the eyes of the last
woman I have yet to love.
