Ciao, beachy scene. Air chills, so soon to triclinium for treats and recount.
Adieu like a skipped stone—a peck on cheek? Or, a stonebow’s throw—a smoochy smack? Waves welcome every plop.
Stay as long as credits roll; let each lit line from the horizon merit company until the infinitesimal space twixt blips its last dim.
When will see’s sea cease? With a bit of callidity, eye’s last etchings will hold during the walk home, where wait welcomes from swevens’ inks. ; )