Flower crowns,
in a forgotten field,
sunflowers that towers over summer skies,
busted iPhone sings Magic Potion,
and the body electric.
These are the magical times,
sunny sweetheart,
when we are electric,
sparking and sparkling,
infatuated illuminations,
on August afternoons,
high on sugar,
sweet on each other,
my eyes on your shirt,
that rests on one shoulder,
with my hands on the timber of your chest.
Your voice echoes,
out in the open.
You kiss “Hey girl,
you’re my girl” on my lips,
and I am speechless,
and starved.
