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It's not the charge to the beach that pleases me most
But the slipping back
The tendrils of foam and the shine and the burrowing crabs.
It's not the bells of the sea that speed my heart
But the hiss of the swash
The settling fragments of shells and the effervescence.
Passion first then the gradual unfolding
A slow eroticism
If you are meant for this, you know.
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