I watched as your knees and thighs--
toes and ankles--
bronzed in the midday sun.
The thin veil of cotton
that was your dress
strained against the breadth of your chest,
two buttons undone to ease the
(except for me)
all modesty failed and gave way
to the fluttering breeze--
pushing the edges of the seams
revealing the real estate of your thighs
and the heat of the curves
that thin curtain of modesty.
I smiled. You smiled.
You laughed. My smile grew.
In the pocket of my jacket I found a felt tipped, black pen.
I pushed the cap off with my thumb
--a triumphant click to celebrate the moment--
and watched as the blades of grass swallowed it with
a certain satisfaction.
I began to write...
Your green eyes watched my brown hand.
My brown hand guided the black ink into curves and lines.
The black characters made bold the red of your dress.
The red of your dress was lost in the reflection from my eyes
(my eyes, sadly, are void of