There's no poetry Sewn into the seams of the sea's dark wine blouse. Only people Drunk on love and death and the humid smell Of seaweed infused freedom A normal man could stare into her eyes for hours and feel nothing. But God must have stopped making normal men. There are some men in shoes taking selfies in the dark. The sea threatening to lick their feet A man grinding aggressively against a woman A guy who hasn't seen the sea before, writes his name at the shoreline repeatedly to watch it get washed away It must be raining in the distance, lightning graces sky For brief moments. The air is thick with smoke Cigarette, Cigars, Weed. The poetry meet ended. And My poetry is lodged between the breasts of my lover. In her orange dress that beckons all to gaze upon her. On the hips of a girl built for running. In her legs, a little too thin for her body A smile so honest it scares me. I still wonder what goes on in her head on the days she's happiest. I watch her dance across the sand Bare feet feeling the earth below Wind tugging lightly at her hair. Her running from the waves like a mischievous child After smacking you on the arm I watch her gather sand over and over as I scatter it. She jokes about how I'd be cancelled on the Internet and I can't help but agree. She continues her work, she can't tell she is being watched. I wish I could do the same. Squat in the center of a beach and forget there's war across the sea Or that people have eyes and mouths to gossip. She asks whether she would make a good sculptor. She'd make a good anything. She made a pair of boobs and a cigarette in the sand. That's where the magic is at.