The Golden Hour

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The Golden Hour – brainwork

And then there would come a day
when, on the golden sand,
been kissed every other second
by the salty water,
Our fingers twined in each others’,
beneath the soft crystal-like granules,
The orange blush of the goodbye sun
dripping on the edges of your honey skin
and jet black hair,
Our feet, partially drenched into the wet sand,
the gloss on your lips glistening mildly,
as it’s gentle curve hides behind the
golden brown hair strand, busy in performing an elite salsa
back and forth in smooth swings.
Those sea-full of brown eyes resting their shyness on some
nonexistent point, somewhere between the horizon
and your half-visible feet,
That dome-shaped silver earrings
swinging dramatically slow – giving a quick-witted response
to the eastern cold breeze.

That would be the day,
when I would, confidently, grip your hand
with a firm clench,
attend your eyes with a trust as heartening as it was
during our first conversation.
And ask you to look at the everyday, never-ending
romance between the sun and the horizon,
hold your crested chin,
turn your face towards mine, and,
before the eastern winds dare to interrupt,
pull you so close that your heaving breath
would be clearly audible,
and, in that rapid turn of events,
hold up your left hand,
and notice the extent of  surprise and happiness
in your watery eyes,
as they witness the glistening edges of the silver ring
I pushed into your finger to make you mine – Forever.

 

– HP
from brainwork

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