Second Beach

We are walking on the sea wall, a first date. We talk and steal sideways glances, collect snapshots to pour over later.

Near Second Beach, summer seeping through finally, the couples dance to the blare of a portable stereo. I watch to see if I know how it goes, see the pavement crack where they might stumble: the man who loses count too easily, the woman who always steps too wide, unable to get back to his arms, and the other woman on the stone steps waiting, nodding to the music so someone might see she's ready to dance.

Nearby the sun keeps setting, the rhododendrons gasping the air, cedar chips fresh on the paths.

Tonight I will kiss you on the paths.

Tonight the flowers and I will stay awake waiting, another night here on the tip of our tongues long after the couples have bowed and walked away home, long after the earth has quietly rumbled along. The birds will wake all night to the reek of blossums and you somewhere sleeping, will turn over and over, the sheets winding tight, wet still, the breath of that kiss.