In the days of cerulean flowerbeds in the orange ocean, my handsome and I traveled to the damp caves to bring out ancient canoes to lull along on the waves, until our arms cried for rest. Gladly, we returned to shore where we slowly baked until our skin simmered until it was the color of the copper-flecked multicolored sand beneath us.
The red and black and white rocks from the cave– the sand’s distant ancestors– gently and unwaveringly kissed by the saltwater, crumbled in acquiescence, unable to resist its charms. The spectacular colors came from the deep abyss of the earth, near impossible to be confirmed without true professional scientific equipment, but the scent of sulfur and salt powers the atmosphere within– but not overwhelmingly so– resting comfortably like a cloud lingering serenely in an azure sky with no pressing destination.
I brought an apple, beautifully checked with white snowflakes on its crimson skin. I pressed it into his sunswept palm.