| | back & forth | | ||||||||
| January 10, 2014 @ 1:40 p.m. | ||||||||
| Feels like a full moon | ||||||||
It was one of those days. When my skin feels fragile and my bones feel hollow. And he is getting off the bus. Sluggish. A contrast to his normal bright hellos. So we sit by the pond. He burrows next to me; no jumping around. Then it's time to go home. Where he plays and breaks a toy. And it is enough. Enough to send him over. Over to my lap. My arms around. And my voice reassuring that I understand. For him as well, it is one of those days. Because sometimes it seems we are in tune like two strings in one cello. And his highs are my highs. My lows, his lows. So how about it, Athan? Let us run away. Let us go again. We can move to Andorra. Leave everything behind. Live in high mountains. Learn French and Catalan. I can be a hermit. You can be free. Let it be you and me. How about it, Athan? We can cut the strings. |
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| movingsands | | o | p | n | d | | |||||||