It’s what we live for.
Acutely pink, a rosé panna-cotta tart,
the color of cheeks and chapped knees,
screams, of laughter in thistle patched fields.
I pushed us as far as I could go,
the edge, of yellow pooled sunset puddles,
falling into, an evaluation of damage to irked skin,
embracing a line of trees, choking in dry air.
You, my literary inspiration,
the besotted Mr. Darcy always tailing,
linear lines, hands that pull for closeness, playing at coy,
achieving the feeling of spring, ruining leather shoes,
ripped stockings letting in, the cold.
