Nicole Johnson

Sitting beneath the warm rays of the sun,
I gaze up to the breeze as it runs its waves though the ribbons of my hair.
I’ve ached to feel this.
The feeling of being so high, I’ve risen above it.
We sit here, our hands entangled and our eyes locked.
Mine mirroring a haze of autumn hues,
Yours a rich of warm amber goo—enchanted by the beauty that is you.
The trees whistle, canceling out the sounds of birds chirping.