Here, the short grass is an emerald green –

moist from sprinklertone, tinged with honeydew scent.

Here, the street lights, low-sodium auroras, are soft yet sullen; lacking the light-heartedness necessary to stretch into midnight skies.

Here, even the low, somber hoot of a distant owl lends itself to a surrounding silence – a silence borne of the light wind’s whistle, a silence to soothe and keep.

Here, the murmur of your name bounds and rebounds off the surrounding absence, until the echo’s voice becomes indistinguishable from my own.

Here the slightest breeze, effervescent and charming, whispers stillness into my ear.

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