Golden Hour, Slow and Sweet

The sun spills gold like honey over jagged peaks, its light caught in the folds of hills, whispering secrets to the olive trees.

The sun spills gold like honey

over jagged peaks,

its light caught in the folds of hills,

whispering secrets to the olive trees.

The sky is a palette smeared

with burnt sienna and soft rose,

time bending,

stretching,

holding its breath.

We sit, cross-legged and unhurried,

wine glasses sweating in the still heat.

The bottle sweats with us,

its contents dwindling as laughter rises,

a quiet riot breaking the stillness.

Someone lights a Lucky Strike,

the first pull curling into the air—

a ribbon of defiance

against the dying day.

Smoke mingles with the scent of rosemary,

ash floating like the dust

we kicked up on the climb here.

The mountains stand witness,

indifferent, eternal,

their shadows long,

their silence deeper than our words.

The golden hour passes—

slow and deliberate,

like a lover reluctant to leave,

like the way we cling to this moment,

fingers sticky with wine and smoke,

hearts loosened,

souls bared.

We are here,

bound to the earth

and the fading sun,

the last rays

painting us

in liquid gold.