Our romantic Mexican Riviera Hotel

smelling of fish, salt and fresh oranges

borders a splintered fence

surrounding a dilapidated stucco mansion.

"American - just walked away from it," our waiter explains.

We creep over desiccated leaves

and gaze at the hauntingly beautiful remains

with its forlorn glassless windows,

shelter for nesting pelicans,

shrine to lizards.

An egret gingerly steps along the broken roof tiles

glistening like fish scales,

and emits eerie cries like lost souls.

I grab my lover's hand,

knitting our fingers like roots.

"We are here on borrowed time," I say.

"Our dreams and hopes

are etched in stone

under the moon's blue haze

where sea, wind and jungle will eventually claim them.