When he speaks

he has summer in his mouth;

languid words pulling me to sleep and

tides of strawberry curls prickling my skin.

In the morning you wake and step

into your ritual, bathing in the green

of a humid first, washing the salt

from your eyes with sweetened water.  

​

I will collect you like a treasure;

tell me the worst of you and

I will polish it into

sea glade, delicate but

dull with stain of violet

and coral.

Tonight we tread over lush grass

blinking with barbs and thorns,

a caution and a reminder that

even the softest things can make you bleed.