One syllable writing - afternoon in a park

I lie down in front of her, on the grass.
“Do you think we’ll go to hell, for what we did?”, she asks. She laughs.
I look up. The tree branch makes a shape on the sky which makes me think of a hand. My gran’s hand, as she helped me get up from a fall.
Pink blooms stick out from the hand. They speak of spring and life and light. I reach out, to touch her face. Her cheek and ear and nose. I trace out her lips. They are soft. Red. I can’t breathe – for a bit.
I say, “No, I don’t think so. It felt too good.”
Her hand finds mine, moves it back to her lips, to be met with a kiss.
A leaf falls.
The sky up there looks down. The sun shines through the branch. The pink buds bloom. I smile.