i am seventeen
sitting in classics
seeing them hold hands. the girls.
they are proud.
open.
unrelenting.
hadrian eyes me, seeing i do not understand.
'cur invida es?'
i do not look at him.

                     odi et amo quare id faciam fortasse requiris
                            nescio sed fieri sentio et excrucior

he puts his hand on my shoulder
where it still remains.

bright phoebus trails a hand in the brush to feel the flowers catch and snag between slender fingers;
fields of grass wrap themselves over the rounded hills;
violets stretch in the hot sun;
the enormous oak tree behind reaches out and skims the surface of the heavens;
the wasps make nest in its branches, darting out and around the occasional plummeting acorn;
the air ripples with the sweetness of hyacinths;
the cypresses line the horizon, a herd of deer graze in their shadows;
the man [who is not a man] rests against the trunk, sighing, eyeing the budding laurel tree that shivers in the warm breeze;
the Cyrean hives hum pleasantly;
twin calves plod towards the man [who is not a man], and a palm is reached out to caress their young heads;
everything is sweet;
everything is lush;
everything is warm.