You and I
Do you remember how we would run?
Breathless, hand in hand, as if the world itself were chasing us.
Perhaps it was.
You would know better than I.
You laughed at my shoes and bade me take them off.
I protested, fearing hidden threats:
The rock’s tooth,
The thistle’s tine.
You warned that guarding against such things risked missing all that was good:
Dew-soaked grass,
Betwixt your toes
And mine.
You promised my skin would toughen, protecting.
Now I walk through fields barefoot, remembering
The pain of your leaving.
The tenderness of your touch.
Your absence piercing.
Your kiss divine.
Written in response to Friday Fictioneers, a weekly 100-word writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Come and play along!
Thomas Charles Henry 
Leave a reply to Edith M. Field Cancel reply