Watching you walking, your steps as regular as your heart was under the tips of my fingers only this morning. How your back remains straight and unencumbered, no guilt or shame weighing it down, your mind free, your conscience clear.
Watching how your legs move slowly and deliberately from the hip, rhythmically, your knee bending ever so slightly, one two, in-out, like a chest heaving, or the swooshing of blood across the heart.
How you slightly drag your left foot, and I, I always telling you off for demolishing shoes just like little boys do, just lift your foot slightly I whisper to you whenever I’m walking beside you, and your shoe complaining of the roughness of the road, of the kerb, the edge of its heel indelibly wounded and scarred, bleeding bits of rubber or whatever heels are made of these days, bleeding into the path you leave behind, just lift your foot a little bit, will you, pleeease, and that slightly rasping noise, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, blood, breath, you.
Watching you walking, and how your lips always carry a little smile, as if life’s well worth your every while, a cup always full, always paradise at the other end of your next step. And watching your eyes, as they lightly, gently and fearlessly alight on everything around you.
Watching you. And then you look up, and you see me barely hiding behind the lace of the curtain, watching you. Your smile, so gentle just a while ago, opens into a rainbow, fireflies, myriad, light to my gaze, fire on my skin.
Watching you watching me, and my heart skips another beat.
featured image: window with lace curtain in Monet’s house in Giverny