We would extend our arms from car windows,
palms open, fingers stretched,
hands flapping against the wind—
that was the sound of our happiness.
The sunshine, the air,
the world supine at our feet,
the smiles that would never end,
and Amália singing of honey and water,
our names under her breath.
Parked in the middle of a field,
the country was just waking up,
smelling the dawn on our skins.
We stood over a rock
by a lake forced into being,
leaning away from each other,
arms taught, hands clasped, eye unwavering—
we would have fallen had we let go.
And we did.