The creases that stem from this valley of temptations slink into the raft of fingers that float from the branches where your forest crumbles. The sighs stretch themselves out in currents that roll with the ocean floor and each inch settles into the silt of voyages that only horizons and seagulls know.
This is the corner of the sea where the wayward disappears.
It flows and finds the island of my thighs, settling at the edge of my beach where the tongues of your ocean lap and dissolve. The ripples freeze into a map of movement paths that trickle towards the spot hidden by the blanket of your tricks.
On the other edge, another ship sails.
The sea levels rise as the trees that line the shore sweat into the night. While this island sinks, little by little, then slowly, disappears.