The waves crash, crystal blue and Coke bottle green.
The salty air stings her bare skin, whips her blonde hair.
In her swimsuit, her body a Greek sculpture, softly pink
and perfect, as strong as the sun that warms the air.
I follow her to the grotto, Artemis unblemished.
Our little world in the warm, clear waters away
from all that would sully us, destroy us, drown us.
Under the waves Sirens call us down into the deep.
We hold close in the water, rolling with the waves.
The magic is fading with our age, and can’t protect us.
Her body is warm and strong and I don’t trust these feelings.
She pulls me tight and I bury my face in that golden hair.
Walk hand in hand back to our subdivision above the ocean’s edge.
Holdings hands means more than it did as children, but does it mean romance?
We are silent, only our harsh, ragged breath making a sound above the surf.
Her hand is calloused and rough, and it’s the touch of Artemis, still free to run.

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