It is august and I grab, I place her hand within my hand. Briskly, I say, and her cheeks are florid. I see her heart within her eyes, the taste of her breath, the sweat trickles upon her neck and I long to taste the salt of her pores, rolling, the earth breaking beneath our weightless bodies. I kiss her and we run. Never in this life could I have grown tired of the soft vibrant press, pressing, blood red lips, ‘Amaranthine,’ I whisper, and she disappears into the night…