as the sun lays to rest in the blankets of the Indianan lake,

as small raindrops (or tears?) fall from above to grace the “different kind of heat,”

as a slow song no one knows, plays itself through the buzzy speakers, with fireworks in the distance,

as everyone holds onto their love,

I can’t help but not caring what they say about me loving you.
I can’t help but want to be the one swaying and laughing in your arms.
And I don’t really mind.