May I hold you?
Would that I could feel the summer through your skin
And the sunlight in your curls between my fingers.

You would only sap the last bit of earthy warmth from me, I fear.

You did not miss me then.

I tried not to think of you until your presence hung heavy on the trees and could not be ignored.

I'm sorry.

The whole world wept to see me go. My mother harvested her dying grain with vigor to hide her crying, her scythe flashing like a reprimand. I think she curses Zeus for making her forever a mother. I was loath to part from her—from them all really—and yet…

'And yet?'
Why do you hesitate?
Why do you smile in that secret way
When your half-life of happiness is over?
Now you are with me,
Who is wretched with longing for you
And wretched with knowing
I give you no joy.
I have condemned you to the cold and dark
When you belong with the sun,
And yet your countenance is light enough?

It pleased me to know that the world and my mother would miss me. And it pleased me to know that you awaited my return. And for all the joy I had being in the sun and fresh air—surrounded by all that merry brightness—at times I was blinded and my skin burned and maybe I missed the coolness of your fingers on my brow.

You missed me?

I missed the calm and the quiet and the rock and your presence, which demands so little of me.

Do you love me then?

Does that really matter? I am content in the knowledge that wherever I am someone longs for me. And I have grown accustomed to your shadow.

Is that enough for you?

It is.

Then it is enough for me.