The Zombies ran amok in the atmosphere's ears,
and spring breakers' skin contrasted with the neon one-pieces.
She strutted to and from somewhere, he couldn't remember
how directions, or words
worked.
It was the time of the season for loving,
and the five foot eleven man was having a serious
allergic reaction only she could cure.
Somewhat like an illness,
he felt his stomach rumble with air,
and his forehead felt warm,
and he felt something else, too.
It was the time of the season for loving,
and it was the time of his life, where he felt
like his mattress was too spaceous,
his arm needed a place to rest,
or a voice to tickle the underside of his chin and ears,
or even something as simple as one more beat of his heart
that actually felt like that,
and not robotic.
Clad in just a speedo,
which he couldn't've thought was a better buy,
until he had donned it in front of a beach full of people.
Volleyballs and tanning oil wrecklessly twisted and shimmied
throughout the lukewarm, dead air.
Not a free spirit knew why they chose
to spend their nonexistant time there,
to be completely honest with you,
they just were.
And the man who was the only triangle-bottomed man
at that beach, nervously and hesitantly
stumbled up to the woman,
and barely spoke a sweet nothing
before she broke his sentence with her lips,
against his,
for
some
unexplainable,
enlightening,
fucking groovy,
reason.
And The Zombies gradually faded out,
and The Ronettes spun in with a passion so strong,
the woman could only mouth the words,
be my baby.
YOU ARE READING
the Place Between the Mountains and the Sea
PoetryIf I could travel to any land, it would be the place between the mountains and the sea, where everything feels like a hell for the sole reason that I'd only ever experience it for the first time once. But that feeling would be worth it. I know it. ©...
