Autumn slightly cooler than summer, you have
put on a bulky black, long-sleeved sweater, down
which your waist-length mass of curls cascades to the
waistband of baggy, slightly distressed cargo
pants, with tattered cuffs;
and, given the militant dislike of shoes
you bear (all of fifteen years now, since you were
in kindergarten), your feet---gliding on the
beach's finely pulverized sand---are sheathed in
gray, semi-sheer socks.
Thus clad on that beach, you pose for your boyfriend's
photographs---fifty depictions of beauty
vivified by male to male Love. All those who
look at them will agree that you should model
professionally.
Starwardist