the grass is coarse beneath us
but your hand is smooth in mine.
the summer humidity
has run its fingers through your hair
and the makeup that you didn't need
is smeared beneath your eyes
but you're still beautiful.
we don't speak any words
but the rising and falling of your chest
says everything we need to know.
we look to the inky black canvas
of the night sky
pricked by tiny pinholes of light
that are actually far larger
than we could ever comprehend.
the fireflies enact a light show
as a maestro cicada plays his concerto
and this summer setting seems perfect
but nowhere near as perfect as you.