I didn’t care much for the sunset,
right here,
in the old churchyard with plums rotting at our feet.
The pregnant trees bowed to us,
sticky, alcoholic;
a drunken, golden nest.
Right here,
perched on the edge of it all,
I saw my life unfurled deliciously
through the haze of that sweet summer syrup–
the electricity of you–so alive,
so green,
your every heartbeat breathed me into being.
Indigo Tuesday 