She waits on the deserted stone wharf as my small fishing boat pulls away on waves colored iron and striped white. The black tangles of her hair whipping in the late Autumn winds, and the flush of her skin provides a stroke of color across
the monochrome of our village. Just last night I had laid her down upon the soft coverlet and tasted her mouth.

In the beginning of our courtship I thought often that she tastes like the surf, stolen kisses reminding me so of the salt-spray of the waves in high chop while I wrestled with the tiller, the ropes, the catch. Her fingernails burned across my shoulders, the same burn as I hoisted the nets from the deep.

Now as I sail away from her unsure if I will come back, I know that it is not that she tastes like the sea, but that the sea tastes like her. I feel her across my soul the way I feel the scorch of the anchor rope running fast through my grip, and I know that I will return to her if the sea will allow it.