All in a golden afternoon, under the skies of cloudless blue.

Maybe it was you, or the whispering caress that scraped along the nape of my neck.

Distant and warm. Featherlight and breezy. A mother’s touch.

Our thoughts entangle, fingers intertwine. Our backs pressed to the earth, soil clinging to the fabrics of our clothes.

__

_ (we’re alike, i’d like to think. do you think?)_

__

Can you hear my words? My stories and songs?

Or do you listen more to the birds singing underwhelming tunes?

The rustle of fallen leaves, plucked from their designated branches?

I try to _pick_ at your turning brain. I try to _smear_ off the lingering sparks of golden residue from your mind, from your lips.

I bring the unnamed residue to my own lips. I part them, and you taste of honey and silken wonders. Your thoughts collide with my tastebuds and I fear I don’t want to taste anything more.

_ (it isn’t obsession, it is an aching i can’t fully fathom.)_

The lump within my throat bobs when I swallow you down.

I’ve fallen silent. Filling that silence was now _your_ words. Your strung out stories underneath the blue sky.

There are no clouds to point out and muse over, so instead you point out the way my eyes have a golden lilt underneath the kissing sun. Or how my freckles dapple awkwardly beneath my lower lip.

I’m not listening to the cadences of the birds as you had been _(neither the rustling of falling leaves)_. I’m drinking you in.

Just as you are with me.

You tell me you don’t listen well, but it seems that your eyes work wonders when they wish to. Your tongue can run miles upon miles and I wouldn’t get sick of it.

The grass and greenery is nice, but it wilts. I’ve never _faced_ a day you’ve wilted. No afternoon has had your perfectly _golden_ smile dimmed or has had your skin _blue_ in exhaust.

I’m peeling off your layers, yearning to see _all_ of you.

_(All in a golden afternoon, under the skies of cloudless blue.)_