A Place Where Words Don't Belong

The upward curve of warm soft lips is your smile,
Is the downward crawling of tiny insects
From my neck and into my belly.
Little legs make pinpricks upon my spine-
They tickle in the most unbearable way-
And I can't help the grin that splits my face.
Two hobbit-high, grubby-fingered children
Walked on this route home many years before us.
Our feet have out-grown their children's shoes,
Similarly, the so-familiar walk home no longer feels quite the same.
Together, our words spill forth with practiced awkwardness,
halting abruptly.
Uncontrolled, our eyes meet for an instant then fall.
Your cheeks are red and you claim it's the cold
But I find that it's strangely warm outside for February.