Walking Back

Thinkers thinking, as they often do, singers singing, poets shining, and givers giving, takers taking, children hurting children then giving them little hugs and kisses, and the world goes on and on and on and on, and…

 
Cream turned to bubbly foam from a drunken cup of warm horchata, shiny, wet streets outside the window, fallen orange leaves, carpeting the lawn, and loved ones laughing in the rooms around us…  

We go outside, walking in the cold, but we are warm in our fluffy coats. Looking down we see ice covered leaves, looking like candy under glass, they crunch wonderfully under our feet.  Holding hands, we quietly listen as sleet comes down like millions of tiny crystal beads, bouncing against the dark, naked limbs and twigs above us, making the world sound like it is made of tin. Ping, ping, ping.  Little pings, pings that sound loud in mousey ears, and they ping against our coats.  It sounds new and yet we know it is so old. 

I don’t feel old.  I feel alive, next to you.  How alone I would be without you.  Your smile, or frown, or petulant glare, or even that anger that makes my cheeks turn red with shame.  How wonderful that you are there, and here, and there again. 

We have warmth to return to, when it gets cold.  The stream in the sandy gravel bed beside us, runs quickly through the bright green moss.  It will seep into the caverns and to the rivers and the warm, warm sea.  I love you, my love, even when you are not there beside me, but now you are, and before the dusk becomes more hazy, and our foot steps less sure, let us return back to the rooms of laughter, and linger there in paradise.

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