He was the cold gravel of small stones, his hard facts of reality resonating solidarity underneath my heels. He was mud in the midst of mist after a rainy day, his softness oozing in between my toes. He had cracks and bumps and uneven flooring, but it was exactly that fatal flaw that made him see the cracks and bumps and uneven flooring in me. He saw through my pretenses, despite the fact that I’ve tried so hard to walk straight so no one would ask if I were doing alright. He knew without asking that I wasn’t. He felt it in the way I dragged my legs just a little bit heavier than others, in the way I tripped and stumbled over the smallest hills, and in the way I stopped to stare at the nighttime sky in the middle of the city roads. There were times, though, when I’d feel like flying, and he’d feel like the skip in my feet would make it impossible for him to reach for my toes. He thought my “I’ll come back”s were simply empty promises, and that I’d leave without even saying goodbye. He assumed without asking that I wouldn’t. He thought he felt it in the way I wore the thickest slippers to cover myself from his rough edges, in the way I jumped to avoid him for even the shortest second, in the way I slammed myself back to him with equal force. That was all he believed he was for – something you’d never touch if it weren’t for gravity pulling you towards him, never knowing that you would be falling into an abyss forever if it weren’t for him. How many more days will go by of my shoes embracing his surface before he realizes that flying was a temporary bus ride, and he was the permanent destination?