Riviera

The air is syrup,

heavy with fig and crushed thyme,

the sea pulling at the hem of the world

with slow, salt-soaked hands.

Palm trees murmur secrets,

their fronds brushing the velvet shoulder of the sky,

while jasmine slinks along the cracked white walls,

spilling its ghost-heavy perfume.

The hills turn their dark faces inland,

but here on the promenade,

bare arms brush in the thickening dark,

skin warm as apricots, breath sweet as wine.

A woman laughs, low and lithe,

the sound slipping into the folds of my shirt.

I taste it.

I taste the whole evening,

smoke, stone, the bruised sugar of dusk.

The sea sighs again, deeper now,

dragging stars in its tangled hair.

A moth flutters drunkenly at my throat.

Someone sings, a broken, beautiful thing,

and the night leans in.