It took several turns down the same road
to notice how the gravel felt.
Several turns to disconnect from the view
and settle into another sense.
To listen to a voice,
spoken in the same tongue as the road home.
How it crackled and rolled under our steps.
Skipped and bounced over tripping feet.
Our footprints, chiseling their proof into the ground
in a trail of small strides.
Made deep with the weight of unrealized dreaming
pressing down hard on our backs
forming cracks in our composure.
Cracks that made breezes whistle our separate tunes as it passed us.
Catching the beauty of our movement
in spite of our rifts.
Turning into harmony the agreement of two
that remain broken.