His skin is summer and rough childhood. Warm and calloused, it is home.
His voice, raspy, loud and so distinctly him that for a moment I saw his fingerprints floating in the air as he calls my name.
Ever the boisterous one, even the shyest of flora turns wherever he goes.
Flighty, down to the bone, adventure is what he constantly seeks.
In the land of snow, across the desert sand, beneath the murky fluid of his noodles
He is restless, even in his sleep
While I'm left awake, wondering where his soul could be sailing
While I'm left standing, feeling my roots crawl deeper and deeper into the earth.
Sturdy. Steadfast
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