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Description
We had lain in the back yard, you and I,
the grass greener than it should be, somehow real, and soft like feathers.
The sky and flowers and birds all tinged with the
bright rouge of our folly, our addiction, our joy.
A trumpet flower hung by my head, glowing in its own
radioactive light, and I reached a trembling hand,
pale and small, to run a finger along its long technicolor petals.
We were draped over orange lawn chairs,
our hair sticking to our sweet sweaty necks,
fuchsia raspberry juice drying sappy on my wrist,
mingling with blood I did not recall.
She was five feet or miles from me, stretched across the width of her chair,
hair falling into the dirt, and blowing pink balloons out of lips the same colour, puncturing them with her index finger, and starting over.
I exhaled, watched a bee stumble over itself through the air,
heavy with nectar, intoxicated,
mirroring my own sickness, my dizzy staggered thoughts, the whistles in my ears.
My bee paused, then went on its way over the fence covered with sunflowers.

I wished he would have stayed,

but I looked down on us from somewhere high,
both with frosty pink and red ceram-wrap halos,
our white and gaunt faces with glassy brown eyes like dirty puddles,
our necks covered in henna dragons and beasts soaked into us,
she so afraid that they would leave her unprotected.
My fingers were entwined with a soft pink ribbon
and hers were stroking blades of grass like loved faces.
I wiped away the blue glitter from my face as the wind picked up
and I stood, stripped in the bright grass,
and hurled myself at crystal clear water in a pond
I had not yet noticed, breathing,
heavy with light and intoxicated, and in mine and your
perfection.

Description
We had lain in the back yard, you and I,
the grass greener than it should be, somehow real, and soft like feathers.
The sky and flowers and birds all tinged with the
bright rouge of our folly, our addiction, our joy.
A trumpet flower hung by my head, glowing in its own
radioactive light, and I reached a trembling hand,
pale and small, to run a finger along its long technicolor petals.
We were draped over orange lawn chairs,
our hair sticking to our sweet sweaty necks,
fuchsia raspberry juice drying sappy on my wrist,
mingling with blood I did not recall.
She was five feet or miles from me, stretched across the width of her chair,
hair falling into the dirt, and blowing pink balloons out of lips the same colour, puncturing them with her index finger, and starting over.
I exhaled, watched a bee stumble over itself through the air,
heavy with nectar, intoxicated,
mirroring my own sickness, my dizzy staggered thoughts, the whistles in my ears.
My bee paused, then went on its way over the fence covered with sunflowers.

I wished he would have stayed,

but I looked down on us from somewhere high,
both with frosty pink and red ceram-wrap halos,
our white and gaunt faces with glassy brown eyes like dirty puddles,
our necks covered in henna dragons and beasts soaked into us,
she so afraid that they would leave her unprotected.
My fingers were entwined with a soft pink ribbon
and hers were stroking blades of grass like loved faces.
I wiped away the blue glitter from my face as the wind picked up
and I stood, stripped in the bright grass,
and hurled myself at crystal clear water in a pond
I had not yet noticed, breathing,
heavy with light and intoxicated, and in mine and your
perfection.