Ochre on her fair skin.
The twilight sun paints her smile in idealistic hues
as we walk away from the music, from the grass,
from our spot in the shadow of a tree.
Hands held, still swinging and swaying
with the receding bassline.
I get caught up sometimes,
I get busy
over thinking.
I don't like that part of myself.
There's times where
I can't provide
a passionate
hard ****
for her,
and
I feel
like a
lesser man
in those moments.
Trapped in my mind,
hoping that she'll still like me
even though I can't seem to get it up.
There's also times where
I know it doesn't matter,
where all that matters
is falling asleep all
tangled up together.
Times where
all that matters
is a setting sun
after a day
of laughter.
A day of dancing,
and music,
and loved ones.
Beautiful days, dappled with love yet
not always bookended with
glorious raw ***.
Those days count too,
don't they?
I hope so.
I like her.