August
The grass was golden and cut short, like a home visit
you never want to end.
We got strawberries from the farmers market from a shy man with a voice like a turnip.
I painted your body with them
and stuck the stems between your toes
so it would be sweeter when I licked it off.
we walked home,
under a clouded sun
not thinking about the end.
Coming home
like a gulp of water, a gushing waterfall at the end of a hike. I drink each drop like grains from an hour glass
time traveling in my body,
longing for the place
I once worked so hard to leave.