"What are you thinking?" you ask me,
As we sit atop the blooming hills,
With woolen fluffs drifting by us on the breeze
And the smell of various flora tickling at my nose.
"About the way the sky looks," I answer simply.
Although it is true, that I am thinking of the silver sieve
Stretching across the blue sky, a wipsy mist
That reflects the sunlight on us, forcing my eyelids closed,
I am also telling half-truths.
What am I really thinking? The way the colors
Melting in the sky remind me of your eyes,
The way the soft breeze threading through my hair
Sweeps the poignant way you worry about me,
With the soft anxious sounds you make
When I understate the way the forge's hammer
In my mind makes the ground fall away
From my feet unintentionally when you aren't looking,
Making any steps, short or long, quite the earthquake,
Into the eye of my mind, tugging fractionally at the corner of my lips.
I smile to the small portion of the sky that we claim ours,
Recalling every caress, every sensation
That my oversharp senses engrave onto memory.
The touches, every soft brush, the kisses on the
Smooth back of my hand, your fingers trailing
Through my hair, the particular way you embrace me.
"What are you smiling about?" you ask teasingly,
Wanting to know why I smiled for seemingly no reason.
"Nothing," I say, equally teasing, provoking your curiosity.
"Nothing at all. Just enjoying the moment."
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