On presence, just before midnight:

I slip into you like the evening we spent at the beach 
Late in August; 
Sunwarm water only just starting to turn 
Cool, 
The promise of a perfect half hour until the  
Wind would pick up. 
 
You require perfect timing,  
Meeting at the horizon point: 
“I’m only here for tonight.” 
 
But the joy of silk is how it wakes on skin; 
Warm, just wet, and brushed with seasalt.  
 
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