pinned to the earth.

With glassy green eyes Noah looked up at me,
her legs around my neck, ankles touching.
I kissed her cheek and she whistled at my ability
to always throw her a compliment with my lips,
but never speak a word,
never hum a sound.
I looked down at her puckering mouth,
and it reminded me of the first time I met Noah.

We were itching for a distraction,
a chance at breathing again.
The burnt yellow California horizon
had sent us letters from the canyons,
and for years there it was,
but it wasn’t until we were nineteen
that we turned to it for salvation.

She had stains on her red checkered t-shirt.
There was convenience when we slept in cars.
As for maneuvering and comfort,
well that took a back seat,
and we took each other in moderation.
And then we arrived.

Leaning up against the metal,
menthol reds enveloped my sinuses
and the open sky cleansed my pores.
We were, pinned to the earth;
She was warm, her hair tousled.
I stared at the gold her legs projected from the sun,
her calves and thighs like two polls
I’ve wanted to dance around,
since the first time I saw her in shorts.

She twisted her body to the right and with her left hand
brushed specs of sand that stuck to the back of her knees.
She noticed my mouth smirking,
but continued to twist,
then she lifted her head and spoke
“San del Rios tastes like honey.”

And with those six words she rescued me.