Place

So the strawberry sun shines down upon a million little grass-flowers.

Some soaring, some wilted. Some wilting. An universe of green,

peppered by soft white dust and skipping sun-spots. The pollen in the air

would make you sneeze like you're laughing. What

shade of green is laughter?

I want this place to myself. Lay down right in the

center, stain my shorts, curl up my knees and

stop the skating sunbeams at the edge of my shut eyes.

Here I'd sleep for a hundred years

and the strawberry sun would linger on my skin

everyday,

pink and hazel 

on my sleeping brown skin,

my sun shining down like it

were falling to it's knees in young love,

old  love.

What does it matter?
This  place, I want to myself:)