Over The Serrated Grass Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I pictured 365 whimsical days
Over the serrated grass,
And you are careening towards my
Frail collar bones and I could almost
Catch your scent like you flail your hands
And catch one cicada that created
A ruckus – a splendid cacophony.
Your breath is the odd allure
Shaped pretty fairly into figures
Of pristinely-sculpted fixtures.
Nobody can live forever.
And that, I am sure of, as she
Slid her body onto my body,
Cushioning me against the tender grass.
The Earth girdled us to her
Tepid bosom, and I felt infinite.
I felt infinite that I forgot
How predetermined we were
Over the saw-toothed grass,
Under the churlish Sun
That intimately made marks
Of sophistication over her skin.
I gnashed my teeth,
And she bit my lip
Almost oozing with blood -
A vital sign of yearning,
A subsequent evidence of vulnerability.
Yet, I am finite.
And she is not,
And she will buoy like the chandeliers
Across orbital fates.
I could no longer live infinitely
Under her immeasurable skies
That stretched onto the far lands,
Ensconced in her surreptitious empires.
And I thought,
Over the serrated grass,
I was desolate.