Holding hands

When you reach for the cupboard make sure it is empty. Denying brings nothing but moments to capture and devilishly dance with. Distance knows no solid ground, tread it a million times but the soil still won’t be good for growing.

The time has passed since the weather set up playdates and hid behind corners, ready to come out only on the call of “olly olly oxen free!!!”
Now it sputters and spins, dragging musty bundles of clothes and a few penny serenades.

“This,” he cried, “this is what makes it all worth it, makes suicide tasty, makes wonders of us all.”
“Aha!” She exclaimed. “But what is it that we can eat from these tales? Mystery holds no more mischief than 140 characters holds attentions anymore.”

They held hands.

“Twinkle, twinkle, cherry pie, you are a delight to my almost blind eyes,” he said.