The Beach House

Soft whispers linger,

on his frozen lips.

White line of sand smells sweet.

His weapons lie across the floor, disarmed,

still deadly.

​Silently he beckons on.​

Smooth skin,

rough cloth cut short.

I thought I’d learned his inner soul.

But now I think,​ I’ll never know.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s