Everything is pointillism in the dusk. The grapefruit sun glows orange against blue as I sit in the grass with you, a thought-full notepad resting on your lap and shades obscuring your eyes. Hand clapping against thigh, I brush away fresh grass clippings and look at you from below, from my belly, watching your fingers pinch at the corners of the half-written page. As your pen jitters back and forth making careful swoops of cursive, I think of the blade of a skate on ice, a loose curl on a bedsheet, a piece of black licorice wrapped around a finger. I watch you write like a painter, I write you like a palette; spilling color after color, dabbing and blending you with my eye in hopes to recreate this moment–the soft arc of your back over your crossed khakied legs, your broad shoulders against the old city hall.
But the sun slips below the buildings, obscured, splotched by the spring trees and their may-day blooms. You sit unperturbed now, still, reading your writing over with a careful eye. Your body is sinking an impression into the ground while my pen is moving feverishly, frantic to catch this last bit of light and write you, write us.
