focus. up a stop. focus.
she moves in the dandelions with a fluidity indescribable.
the yellow flowers kiss her hair and sit perched in her hat, in her breast pocket.
she smiles, slow and sure.
there’s something beautiful about 24 frames per second.
the filmy aesthetic of my daydreams are hazy and warm. she’s looking heavenly in her sunhat. she pulls it off and runs her fingers through her espresso colored hair. i capture every moment in my mind.
i can never forget this view:
my love, wandering through the flowered field, the sun starting to set behind her. she is GLOWING. she is an ANGEL. she was sent for ME.
focus. down a stop. focus.
she sings out song and dances with me in her room. her hums vibrate into my shoulder. my hands feel up and down the silky lingeries she wears. she collapses into me in the dim lighting and humid air.
when the song ends, i gently lead her to her bed, where we melt into each others’ arms. her ceiling fan slowly turns, filling the silence with white noise. she is buried under her quilt. she beckons me to join her.
ice cream on a country backroad. seneca salted caramel and baseball cap. coffee and sunhat. the day was cool but we were warm, holding hands the whole way to the lake that day.
hands on the wheel, twangy tunes on the stereo. she drives my car across upstate new york and we listen to all our favorite songs as we fall deeper and deeper in love. the sun is kissing her skin as she learns to love herself as much as i do. she turns to me.
she clutches her picasso book as if it is her prized possession. it is the same way she holds me.
in it, she sketches our love across famous artworks. WE are a famous artwork- or at least, we should be. she laughs when i suggest this to her.
our love is not a book. it is not a collection of poems, it is not an anthology of great stories. no. our love is a photo album, filled with five photos a sleeve. it is every moment, captured, poeticized, remembered. it is incomplete- it is always growing.
every smile. every laugh. every time we are waking up. it is the sun hitting the dried flowers she bought me at the farmer’s market, after one of our first nights together- when it was hard to fall asleep but we wouldn’t have it any other way.
it’s smokey rooms and lemon t-shirts. it’s dingy concert dance floors and picnic benches. it’s museum galleries and recital halls.
our love is a photo album.
she’s smiling as she reads this, wondering what the next photo will be.