How do you call the urge to sleep on a cozy picnic blanket in the summer evening's warm breeze, with nothing but the blue of cornflowers and the crimson red of poppies to keep, gently swaying in the wind? Tender fatigue claiming your eyelids; those strong and lively limbs of yours that swept you of the highest hills and lowest of steeps, the sweetest scents of fauna heavily threading the silk of air, lingering there? And maybe there could be someone next to you you love or maybe not, maybe it's just the thought of laying there for the bare velvet sky to swallow you whole, right where the pinkish blush of sunset fades behind the dimple of stars, ready to unfold.

© fey (05/05/24)