Tropicalia

Take me to where pebbles and sand shift inside hollow guards and
hips wiggle to the rhythmical burping of Tupperware.
Where rustling chiffon rubs over bare legs and girls bite into

chilled limes dipped in tequila.
Where the sun hangs quivering over the skyline like a big yellow egg yolk
before splattering over the horizon.

The faded paint on the window shutters peel away in flakes and
the water must be drawn from a clunking pump.
But the salty breeze tingles your tanned skin and the whiff of
pineapples and coconuts scent the crisp white sheets on the bed.

And when it rains, you can watch the large drops embed themselves
on the sand outside and can curl up in front of the fire as the
twigs crackle and spit small sparks.

It is a small island that is not on any map, that can only be found
with the compass of imagination and desire.

Where the calm waters lap over your toes and there is always
ice-cold Malibu and passion fruit.

Where there is no right or wrong and fantasy isn't out of place.

Tropicalia.