This same gravity holds him to you, draws him to you, an invisible attraction, the physics and science of which remain a mystery, far and away beyond the grasp of Galileo and Copernicus, or the theories of Newton.

Behind closed eyes, you watch a leaf, gently falling from high above, gently spiraling down from the cathedral-like canopy of so many. Your head tipped back, throat open, eyes wide to the heavens, you watch her falling.

Effortlessly she pirouettes, turning tenderly in the breeze, silently descending. Your head tilts slowly forward as you follow her. Your eyes tracing her trail. You sense her fragile weight falling inside you, down, and down, and down through your body.

The tall trees stand still, their boughs sway high above you, a catalogue of soft green foliage and dark gnarly bark, all shades of cocoa brown.

You admire the trees and they admire you. You too are steady, and secure, rooted to the soft soil beneath your feet. Your emotions burrow down beneath the soil, tender tendrils taking root, deep and strong, you are woven, your soul sewn to the very fabric of the earth.

You are at one with the forest. You are at one with his mind.

“Where have you been?” his voice delivers his question, free of judgement.

Your finely tuned senses, empathetic, tender. You read the lilting notes and tones, and map the invisible code of his emotions, the one’s you treasure, a covenant of trust carried in his voice, and delivered deep inside you.

He is calm, confident and strong. He is centered, He is certain. You grip his hand in yours. “Walking” you say, softly, confessional.

“And what did you see?” he asks, wanting you to open and reveal.

“Light, layers of light. Blue, an azure sky bleeding through Beech leaves. Their crocheted branches heavy with the weight of the sky.”

“And the ground?” he wonders.

“Soft, dark, cherry sour. A cocoa of coffee and caramel, a matted mulch of ocher browns, rotting bark, crumbling, a flake of fibers, sequined, with silver-green lichens and moss.”

“Breathe in, what do you sense?” he soothes.

“Petrichor and fresh water, clean, rich earth, new rain, spring air, not yet as sweet as summer, the scent of maybe, knowing she’s twisting, turning; the rotten remains of winter sinking deeper, but not forgotten beneath the soil. Bluebells are pressing, pushing up, spreading a carpet of brilliant almost luminous green. A seascape of renewal, a covering of hope.”

“Do you know they grow for you?” he ponders openly.

Inside you blush with childish memories. The woods, they are the home to your imagination. You grip and release his hand, to wander further in, listening to the rustle and soft crunch of the shredded leaves and dead decaying twigs scattered on the floor.

His feet thread their way behind yours. His stride mirroring yours for pace. He carefully places his feet into the empty prints of your boots; pressing the indent of your footfall deeper into the ground. Knowing that even the touch of your empty footprint binds him to you.

He follows you as you lead him further and further into the forest. His eyes caught on the free fall and flow of your brunette mane. You are his Siren.

“What do you see?” he asks, sensitive, strong, sensing your curiosity.