Make sure you're alone,
When you start making your dream.

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You have to be a lucky man to find a
treasure in the deep sea . Only the lucky get the reward .

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The Arabian is My Lover

And ours is the foremost May-December romance.
He was old and wise when I was a toddler building castles in the sand.
He was ancient when as a tween I  yearned to be that She who sells Seashells on the Seashore.
I know he's getting on in years and yet here I am in a tryst with him, conjuring dreamscapes upon his waves. 

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The Arabian is My Lover

And though he is well endowed
he doesn't feel the need to roar about it.
Well, not all the time anyway.
And when he does roar,
his ancient call drowns out everything
from screaming children to techno music.
It's easy to see that he is a man of varied vibes.
Many are put off by his initial resistance,
but I know that every time we meet,
his calm warmth lies just beyond
his frothing belligerence. 

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The Arabian is My Lover

And we know that
it isn't an equal relationship.
He waits for me all year,
patiently stretching his arms back
in hopes that this time
he'll close them around my embrace.
I know I'm not his only lover
and he isn't mine alone.
We're in a long distance relationship
spanning space-time and lifetimes
and that is our lucky charm.
We say goodbye for now
knowing that we will meet again.
And until then, all I have to do
is cup my ears to hear him
calling out to me from the horizon.

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The Arabian is My Lover

And I draw power from him as he from me.
Even though I oscillate between comfort and challenge in his embrace,
he makes sure I stand on my own two feet.
He likes that my thighs thunder,
causing mini shivers in his ebbs and flows.
But all said and done, he does surprise me
by sweeping me off my feet
when I least expect it and most need it,
making me move with the grace of a ballerina
in the arms of her reliable partner.
In his waters my toes are always pointed,
in delight or in grace.

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The Arabian is My Lover

And our meeting is a sacred ritual, always the same, year after year.
Our limbs meet at first.
My feet, his arms, our extremities just about to touch, skin to almost skin, teasing pleasing, our souls screaming for reunion.
The first lap cools my soles and salt gets in between my toes. 
Unbeknownst even to me, my hips sway to his rhythm as I walk forward.
He takes his time getting underneath my skin until I finally smell of him and him alone. 

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The Arabian is My Lover

He tries to look glorious for me. 
A million diamonds
sparkling in the morning light
is how he wakes up. 
But just when I'm about to indulge
old insecurities of whether I'm worthy
of such a looker,
his salty truth
brings stinging tears to my eyes
and we're even again. 

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The Arabian is My Lover

And he isn't as transparent as he seems.
His waters reflect my body
more incandescent than I perceive myself.
Through him, my arms are round
and golden with dancing veins of light.
My legs are luminous fish
and my toes distant pearls.
I wonder,
If I stay with him too long,
will I transform into one of his sea creatures?
Is this how he consummates his love?
Fear makes me reluctantly leave his shores
before I find out. 

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The Arabian is My Lover

And he's almost a bad boy.
Sometimes his sinewy undercurrents
foretell of danger and turbulence and it's sexy the way he pulls me in
only to push me out.
He isn't an actual bad boy, of course;
he gives back exactly what he takes. 

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