it is easy to know sunlight, to take in the heat and to let it fill the spaces where breath seems last to go. it is easy to feel the heat and grow a garden, to bloom exponentially, to produce in unexpected ratios due to the way light falls, to turn towards the sun with instinct to survive.
this is where the sun grows.
when she touches my body, it is to create. it is to draw flowers from my skin
and pluck the petals one by one, sing-song pulse the inward turns of the ocean
back and in on itself back and in on itself, not forward and return but in circles
she smells like sweat and salt, hot sunshine and pale skin.
she presses my pulse to see what will bloom where. like green, she landscapes
the shadows, cutting them to shape and size, giving stone here, window there
places for light to fall and be known. and still. to know that shape is inconsequential
it is touch that takes flight, her fingers like small birds soft and sharp at once
the same circle of heat cinders the grass, leaves everything too hot to stand. sunlight evaporates and creates space, willing water to land. it becomes easy to imagine forfeiting all costs in order to hydrate, to replenish the thirst, to maintain an instinct to survive
and yet but still. the ocean rises in my mouth full and bitter, like a loss like the familiarity of summer, the hot days to come, the impossibility of infinity.