It slips from your fingers, abandoned like flotsam on the deck.
I daren’t look down. Your skin.
It’s warm, and salty, and smells of promise.
Soon it will be dark.
The tip of my tongue. The sweet muskiness of you. The air cooling on my naked arms,
sweet, crisp and cold.
Anything is possible, and I dare not
take my eye from the telescope.
The faintest scent of wildfire, barely discernible.
And from the desert
the distant sound of gunfire.
An exercise in creative writing, using the senses, that yielded a surprising result. Part of my portfolio for my BA in English.