The ankle-high grass is a softer sand between their toes.
He wears white and she a brighter shade of red.
To her, as he expounds, his words are a plainer song
That he sings beneath the shadows of blacker clouds.
They can hear the river from here, but they cannot
To himself, he thinks her hair seems longer as he presses
The strands between his fingertips.
An infinitesimally small gap closes
Trees rise higher around them.
The very chill of the air is sustenance.
She struggles not to imagine him
More so a hulking devil trying to
And passing that moment of first
Humble embrace on the unfurling
He strains to not relate her more so
To a razor in silk.