issue 8: LOVERS
And here, our arms overflowing. Plums plucked from gilt bough and ironed vine, fields seeping in shade and green pasture. Summer, and white peach is lush on my tongue. The wind drags gentle fingers through the lawn and you kiss my palm with all the airs of a martyr. Your name, like a prayer. Your name, like a stone in my throat that refuses to wear smooth.
Rustling, and an unfurling. The way the air tastes as wanting melts away into fig kisses and the hiss of melting ice—heat-dizzy, the two of us fumble through the motions. The morning air is a lazy uprising that always ends with the two of us half-submerged in the pool.
The smell of strawberries lingers on your hands, a reminder of swollen afternoons from so long ago. Young is what they call us, and foolish, but in my head it will always be July, the two of us sitting on garden walls, dipping hands into ponds of shade.