Lackadaisical kitty in evening sun. Ice crystals sparkling in pavement. Orange slices at half time. Sticky cuticles. Your hand on mine. Eyes that say - I will devour you. Eyes that say - I want more of this. This, right here - your heart beating inside your chest cavity. Four arteries pumping blood to a brain that shimmers like a thousand jellyfish. Waves.
Rocks click clacking at the beach. The moon so low like an ember. The candy pink sky. Pink poppies. Pink peonies. When the beat drops. When the penny drops. When the bus rounds the bend right before the long walk home. When I birthed you and saw your face for the very first time. Camping. Coffee, how you like it.
Baby ladybirds.
Baby frogs.
Baby guinea pigs.
Baby hummingbirds.
The smell of October. The feeling of woolly tights and new school shoes. The morning after. Microclimates. Sea urchins. Horse chestnuts. Fresh Balinese mango salad on the roadside. The smell of a two stroke engine. Freckles. Tears. A milk moustache. Goosebumps. Chicken skin. Getting good at something. Scoring. A knee slide. A water slide. A slip and slide, although they do sell these on Amazon, I checked, but I mean your neighbours one, and your neighbour’s popsicles, and the smell of your neighbour’s dad’s barbecue.
Atlas moth. Pygmy deer. Mist over Lake Tekapo. Book from friend, spine broken. Primroses, bluebells. Mint-green lichen. A promise. A paper cut. A sleepover. Lemonade stand. Ammonites. The colour of apricot yoghurt. The way your body slows down when it’s near the ocean.
The way a dandelion clock gently floats on the wind, catching on the wicker of your
empty shopping basket.
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