Moving to Argentina

There is a place
where the tango
never ends.
Where the mountain
comes down to play
with the sea.
Where the sky
remembers what it was like
to walk upon the shore.
A place where you and I
have yet to come.
To sands that have never
known the mysteries
wrinkled under our feet.
Where the air moves
ignorant of our scent
but waits for us
nonetheless. Patiently.

There is a place I
wish us to be.
Full of secret sunshine,
nights thick like honey.
Mosquito nets moist
from our tango,
the other one.
The creak of palm trees
standing watch,
and the glow of the Moon,
trying to get
a better view.