dusk light pouring over satin sheets, on days that taste like peach melba. my lover runs his soft fingertips through my hair and says my lips are as warm as spring time. on sundays he wears japanese denim and complains to the sun 'cus he doesn't like when the air is too hot, but just warm enough for his soul to melt to honey chrysanthemums. he wraps himself in the night's divinity smelling like strawberry mint champagne, and rests his head on my shoulder with my papaya lipgloss smothered in his hair. days where coconut oil drips from his lips and clusters of stars stain the sky.
