There are stories behind pictures, of trails losing their way into the woods and an outburst of green. Of looking back to a hand reaching out, and then just utter, pure wild in front of you. Of speckles of pink and blue and red and yellow amidst green, of golden lights through Verde. Those pictures, they are stories captured in the iris, seared in the mind. White, white, oh starburst white, blinding. Burn, intense, beast-like, entwined, heaving breaths, roots, vines, branches extending, the skies, oh the skies and there's you against the stars, I'm tracing constellations off your back, mapping you amidst the darkened dome, the moon's our halo and we're raw in the laps of nature, wearing carpet green and dusted fingers clutching hair. There's veils of water spun between us and everything is nothing, but you. Pictures, thousand, million, of flower crowns and us and everything that was reflected in our eyes. The secret of the trees rolls off our lips, dew drops on our brow, we are returned.