August Tenth

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. 

August Tenth

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