There’s sex in the tropical sun.
It greets the eyes closed and gifts sweat filled afternoons.
There’s sex in the afternoon light.
A shyness that walks hand in hand with lovers.
A deliberately slow descent into the eve of darkness.
There’s sex in the evening darkness soft and warm and filled with cold.
There’s sex in the tropical moon.
It’s blue and alone and covered in clouds, waiting patiently to be swallowed by the night.
There’s sex in the tropical dawn, in pillows of light and tired shadows.
There’s sex in the tropical life.
And I write with tropical blood in my veins…