Late August,
the 6 o’clock sun rests itself on my skin.
Myself, I rest in the grass.
I don’t mind if the bugs make themselves at home in my hair,
that the cicadas are singing,
or that the bright, setting light could disintegrate the emerald from my eyes.
This hour, and breathing, I am content.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Late August,
the 6 o’clock sun rests itself on my skin.
Myself, I rest in the grass.
I don’t mind if the bugs make themselves at home in my hair,
that the cicadas are singing,
or that the bright, setting light could disintegrate the emerald from my eyes.
This hour, and breathing, I am content.
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