An Andalusian Song

Below the wrought iron veranda, a guitar translated the dark. Orchids unrolled their purple tongues to arbor the moon. We had quarreled earlier, now I lowered my head in your lap. Someone was singing about the sea; the way the sea cries for the kiss of the shore, how the sand runs to be drowned. A romantic idea of love, a sweet melody, but we both understood that make-up sex was a much more compelling force than poetry. You went to lay upon on the bed. Later, sangria washed salt from our lips.