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"we shall walk and talk in gardens all misty wet"
you hold my arm as we trek up the hillside, grass crisp beneath our feet and our backs to the setting sun.
one year with you. the thought burns through me like the humid heat around us. you're telling me of the indigenous tribes who lived here before us. their burial mounds still occupy some parts of the land as huge, bulking masses of earth.
"it's awfully hot outside," you say, interrupting your history lecture. we reach the top of the hill. the glow of the sun is orange and burnt.
"take off your jacket, then." i tug at the zipper. "it's much hotter down here than wolverhampton."
your cheeks raise and you remove your clothes, leaving you bare-chested. i take them from you and watch you unroll the blanket you've brought with us.
a mourning dove coos from its perch in a nearby tree. you pat the blanket and i sit beside you, looking out over the field that rolls below us. i've made sweet tea and poured it into mason jars. you drink from yours and i watch a runaway drop make its way down your chin. perspiration slicks my own glass, a cool relief against the summer, and i drop back to sip from it and lie down against the quilted fabric beneath us.
"look how beautiful it all is," i say into the sky, which is clear and cloudless.
you reach down and hold my arm. "living is beautiful. being a small, little thing on this rotating planet."
i pull at the hair that covers your forearm and look for your eyes. "and somehow we've reached each other: two small, little things."
your smile breaks like a flower opening. i haven't seen your grin in some time. i feel a pang in my pulse. the sycamore trees grow so tall and free here. their green limbs shake with the wind.
you say my name. "i'd like to live here with you."
"really?" there's sweetness and lemon on my tongue.
"of course . . . as long as you're with me."
"then i'll be with you." the cicadas start their chorus. my words echo through their song as i watch the sunset with you on the grass.
