And if I go there, will you promise to meet me? I can make the trip alone, but not without knowing you’ll meet me there. We can walk, maybe, as I hear it’s nice there. The sun will feel warm, and I can already smell the tall grass in the late afternoon.
Someone told me there’s a stream that runs through, hidden and still clear-blue. We can find it, maybe. Leave our shoes on the bank and step in barefoot. It’ll feel cool, and the cool around our feet will only make everything else feel that much warmer. You’ll see a smoothed, flat rock on the bottom, and reach in to pick it up. The water will feel cold, sending a chill up your arm. When you pull it out the slight breeze will hit the water left on your arm, and it will feel new. I’ll pull back and send the rock skipping along the top of the water, against the weak current, and back to a watery bed.
We’ll find a tree with shade enough for both of us, not far from the water, and we’ll lie down in the summer grass, greener than a painting. The air will feel so fine as you rest your head on my chest. The crickets will be our radio, and time will drift until night. The stars will serve as lights for lives that could have been, and could still be. The moon will hang full over all, a reminder of what is.
Will I see you there, if I go? It’s not hard to get there, but I don’t think I could ever come back.
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