the secret garden

There I hide among the the bushes and the thorns. There I wait for the picnic, sitting or lying down on a piece of cloth I change often till you come, gripping the sheet or running my palms across it to revive remnants of memories. It is always a private party for two composed of food, talk, sleep, embraces, hands, sweat, games, kisses. It is always just for me and you, and with this, I've settled. A private picnic, with private memories, locked joys within ourselves.