rockwood

Green grass, as fresh as a new tattoo, burning, stinging, peeling, white hot flavored pain flesh. Navy sky, coloring, laying down the backdrop, like the way he held me in bed. Cool, comfortable, cutting silence. The kind that cuts the bread, even without the knife. Where was I? Right, the green tattoo grass and navy snuggling sky. There is a place, only one like it in the owrld, where the two meet on a bridge of lights. The lights glow yellow, the way a honeycomb would during a bee's kegger. The white hot burn of tattoos into virgin skin, the kind that make your fingers grip tightly under the edge of your seat and your eyes stare so straight into ahead that all you can see is white hot fresh sting in the flesh. The navy sky meets that fresh green grass there on the bridge, meets it in the infectious waters who have no mind of their own, just wave following wave until they become embarrassed because they realized that rivers do not wave, they meander, and the waves shamefully drag themselves to shore, their weight doubled, reeking of distaste and dismay at their inability to be cool. My brain aches like a frozen brain only can and develops a new path to follow me down. I look at her, she looks at me, I put a lighter in her hand and she smiles and says okay. We proceed with our precise work and precisely pivot around until we are back at where we parked. The asphault looks aged, a graying sort of salt and pepper style hair, and expands to make our distance look further. Summer, you are my hometown.

-LBR