Beachcombing

I walked down here, but you'll not see the tracks:
the wind came and stole away my footprints,
blew the dust off my memory of sex,
tore my libido from out of its splints.

Here, where only the sun will know my name,
I am not afraid to show her my thighs
after years of avoiding tan, too shamed
to drop towel and fawn under foreign skies.

Now, I am remembering fingertips
tracing upwards, nails catching on tights,
waiting for the weight of your eclipse
to drown out all other worldly delights.

If I get too afraid of what I crave,
I'll hide in the water under a wave.