Footprints

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I wonder what your footprints look like.

Do they look like a foot print on the beach?

There for a bit, but eroded by the sands of time or the waves of change.

Or do they look like the footprints left in the early morning dew when only the animals are stirring?

Those footprints which are visible, but only if you look hard and at the right angle there in the water logged grass.

Could it be your footprints are like those on the forest floor where only a seasoned tracker can follow where they are headed and how fast you are running?

Maybe your footprints are like the prints of a newly born baby found on the shoulder of a mother, hunched over because she will never see those footprints grow and walk on their own.

I wonder what your footprints look like.

I sometimes dream your footprints are on a dock.

They are wet footprints.

You must have just been here, but I can’t see you.

They lead to the end of the creaky wood.

Did you jump into the water?

Am I supposed to jump too?

I turn around and see the footprints drying in the sun.

If I wait too long I won’t know you were there at all.

I look down and see the fading outline of where you have been before.

You’ve been here, but you are not here anymore.

You’re out there.

Out in that lake.

I guess

the only thing

left for me,

left for us,

is to follow,

and jump.

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