499
It was the peak of dusk.
The sky a perfect, gradient rainbow.
The May beach breeze was cold,
But your pedaled heart molded
A warm layer of peace. When
I asked to stay a little longer,
Your silence spoke of novels,
Ones we have written and ones
We will draft soon. Your hands
Sculpt endless bounds, but
I would give anything to feel
Those furnace hands in front
Of the ocean once again.