There's a field of green grass, not just a field but a whole huge area of rolling hills, covered in green grass and littered with trees that some higher power left behind without thinking twice, and you and I are laying near one of these left-behinds, letting the shade touch the tips of our heads, and, with our arms behind our shade-touched heads, it gets the tips of our fingers too and suddenly we both know what a pleasant chill feels like.
The clouds warp our distorted philosophies into nicer shapes, just for a little while. I exhale and you could swear it was smoke but I've never laid hands on a cigarette and this incident makes you realize you love me. "If you hold onto something tight enough for long enough," I murmur, my eyes half lidded but still quite aware of the trickery the clouds are committing, "and then suddenly it disappears, for whatever reason, your doing or someone else's, there'll still be an imprint of it on your hand for awhile. A reminder. A temporary scar. And yo