i always find myself staring at you through an old rusted fence.
the sunrise highlights the curves of your hills which billow elegantly to the horizon, graciously dropping like a feather through the morning mist. your fervent green complexion is plush.
you are blemish free.
here, the hills have dried. the earth no longer has the ability to give and has cracked under the pressure, leaving it's soul exposed to the wind. the drought has brought famine. the famine has skewed reality.
the hope of you keeps me alive.
i long to pick flowers with you. to compare the beauty of spring sprung dandelions with your eyes only to conclude that it's like comparing the tan grass that blows in the fields to your skin; they are one in the same. your hair, like the leaves of fall, spirals downward toward your collar bone. i rake it back from time to time to kiss the fertile soil of your neck.
you taste like honey.
we speak of a day when the fence will be torn down and our lands can meet. time will struggle to stay at the pace of our to-dos:
we'll carve our names into our forests.
we'll draw hearts on our beaches.
the starry night will be our blanket and the universe's universe will cast new constellations.
we'll be married by the man in the moon!
but for now, i really like the way you look through that old rusted fence.
