Oh May! Our old wicker basket sits skewed, a bottle of red tilting the scales in favour of lightbulbs going off under my skin as your laughter booms and scatters my once lucid thoughts. The full moon beams bright, bathing the night and us in mulled vanilla.
We lie back, staring at the stars, strewn, along with the contents of the last midnight picnic in our wild windswept garden. Tomorrow your journey into another life begins. Tomorrow you leave. “Those rose bushes need trimming Sweetie,” you say. I say Hmm…
let me stare at you
my sweet flower-moon of May
next month, you’ll be June’s