She likes green. Green eyes. Green sheets, green duvets. Green pillow cases muffle her moans, her ecstasy.
She likes green. She always did. She suspects she always will.
Ocean crystal green, licking the white sand. Ocean green, giver of life. Pools of green. Creators of energy, bodies salty like the ocean green. Bodies intertwined in the infinite.
She likes green. Leaves and trees and grass and smells of Spring and May. The crisp air. The picnics and laughter.
She likes green. Her birthstone, her compass. Purists and theorics will argue with her. Green is not a color. It's the pregnancy of real colors. She doesn't care. So blue is the sky and the Earth from afar. And yellow is her. Yellow is sunshine and brightness and heat. And she adores her. She adores her adoring Summer and joy and children and love. Her body is heat. And she thinks yellow and green are a great combination.
She adores green. Hazel and infinite. And permanent. She wears it. She wears her, her hazel and her glory. She, the one she adores, is her green. She is emerald and precious.
Emerald green. Hazel. And jewel. Her jewel. She screams green. Legs tangled in green. Creating energy and universes and juices and fantasies.
Yeah, she loves green. She always did. For her, to her. For forever and a day.
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