A large conch shell rests on the bookshelf/headboard, a Jamaican treasure from a long-ago vacation. Our play just made it rock the bed’s width, as if it were back being pushed about by waves. The shell opens like a smile, its lip jagged-edged. The inner surface is glassy smooth, vibrant pink, one end spirals in upon itself. I think of the ages it has been on earth, the distance it has traveled with me, the oceans it’s traversed before. It just whispers, “I’ll be here forever…” I look and listen in awe and wonder at God’s creation. My lover rests on the bed after waves of orgasm, thighs splayed wide, as if tied to bedposts. I lie between them, toying with damp curls. Sex with this Floridian is like a vacation I am on, as well as her supple form. She opens her jagged labial lips with a smile for me to kiss. The inner surface is glossy smooth, vibrant pink, her clitoris and hood resemble a wishbone, or a gateway arch. I think of an age-old poem: “Your thighs are numbered, two, and are as are the poles of the earth, for all that there is, is between them.” I don’t recite it, just whisper, “I want this moment with you to last forever…” I look and lick in awe and wonder at God’s creation.