Sea of Green

I dated a girl who spent almost every clear day that summer down at the beach. It wasn’t the blue sky or the blonde sun rays or the burn of the hot sand on the soles of her feet that called her. It was the ocean. She felt one with the water. We’d drink wine at night and I touched her glowing, golden skin and held her pruned hands and I’d listen as she spoke of the ocean as if it was a lover. I saw her up to her freckled shoulders in the cool water and salty foam. Her bronzed body undulating and becoming one with the briny body of the water. Her long red hair flourishing like a million flagella. The white-crested waves thrusting into her as she makes her way back to the wet sands of the shore. And envy would creep in like an early morning tide.