The smell of the woody fire drifting through the air
and the sharp tint of the grass
reverberate the crunchy leaves I am stepping on,
mixing with the memory of
your crisp shirt,
your soap smell,
your hair on my ear
and my hand on your arm
holding onto you like it’s the first time,
like this is the only time I’ll get to
because it very well may be.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
The smell of the woody fire drifting through the air
and the sharp tint of the grass
reverberate the crunchy leaves I am stepping on,
mixing with the memory of
your crisp shirt,
your soap smell,
your hair on my ear
and my hand on your arm
holding onto you like it’s the first time,
like this is the only time I’ll get to
because it very well may be.
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