Hiram GreenTryst

Remember the drive we took down to the orange grove that spring? How the winding roads carved ribbons into the hillside, and we knew the words to every song on the radio. How the air smelled sweet—like honey, like possibility—and the sun warmed our skin. How we found a quiet spot to park and kissed under the orange blossoms, and the whole day felt like a secret that was just ours. Later, on the way home, you found a flower in the folds of your coat. How their smell lingered—crisp and bright and golden.