White drapes undulating in the calm ocean breeze.
Clocks dripping languor.
My wet hair blossoming with orange smell.
Unknown mysteries of the warm ocean exuding from your salty skin.
Your teeth moving slowly, engraving Moorish patterns on my thighs.
Teardrops of abandoned occult passions scenting the air.
Those Sunday afternoons never born, never allowed to die.
Blue, white, green. Almost.