His hands were as warm as the sun-kissed grass in the mid days of summer as he gripped my palm in His. He lead me down a shadowed path, where only the pale glow of our cheeks were visible in this maze-like fantasy. My naked feet barely kept up with His long, fluid strides that felt as if they only reached farther ahead of me. Our lungs became empty while running away from whatever tragedy nipped at our heels. The damp grass whipped at my ankles as we approached a clearing, illuminated by tiny stars strung upon the thick, rigid trunks of a family of trees. Blood pulsed though our bodies like water dictating a river, we had no need to stop and take a breath; our bodies were young and filled with Love.
The scenery around us became our home; trees that sheltered us from reality, grass that sacrificed its purity for our toes, and stars that stood still only so that he and I may witness our beauty under their light. The chirping of crickets transformed to a melody, as if composed by Debussy himself, urging Him to take advantage of our fading time together.
He stole my fragile hand in His, as if an objection was present. Instead of the cliche kiss I expected, He took me into His arms, waltzing to the rhythm of Debussy.
