and your freckles were

chocolate-covered poppy seeds

a sweet opium

that had the aftertaste

of my favorite aphrodisiac

we lay in the fields of woven gold and barley

and the sky,

much like a stretch of blue-dusted cotton,

put a film of euphoria over our eyes

the air was thick with a sort of sleepy contentment

and our Converse-clad toes swayed with the nodding daisies

it was on that trippy, sundrenched afternoon

that you whispered, with dopey eyes

"hey, pretty girl…I think I love you."

I fingered the hoop that

strung itself through your lower lip

and you smiled (with teeth)

and I kissed your too-prominent canines

it was then, and only then

under the overripe orange of a sun

that I knew you were mine