Puddle jumper: from one place to the next

It is covered in footprints, scuff marks, deep indentations...
my heart.
Some were jumping, singing, just squishing the life right out
steel toed work boots mashing down the soft, spongy tissue.
Others,
like ballerina's slippers dancing across the surface,
light and bright and then gone with a dramatic plie.
Those of late have taken their shoes off all together.
Pushing their calloused bare feet in like I was a pad and they the rubber stamp.
Stamping; from my heart to my mind to my soul.
To my shoulders and neck and ear lobes and groin,
late into the night.
A sweep of a baby toe, fingertips lavishly washing over every inch;
energy moving throughout.
A transmission of megawatt force.
Swirling from head to toe.

Dizziness. Laughter.
Dancing light effervescent.

But then it fades,
like you never thought it would.
So naive to think you could remember every detail,
the gaze that knew you more than you knew yourself at that moment.
You were so lost in her, in him.
It was a cheerful, knowing glance that was all of a sudden filled with such great sadness,
“This is it, GG.”
The inevitable departure.
There was that final embrace that was so magnetic,
like two baby tigers mauling each other, playfully,
frisky petting,
Kids.
Paying no mind to anything else around.
To the growing dark clouds,
the gathering forces that would pull you apart
forever, maybe.

And that’s why it’s so special,
why there are so many dents in my heart, so many feet imprinted,
stamped there and everywhere.

And of course it fades.
It must.
Or else how could you move on?
How could you open your eyes to what is ahead,
and to what is sitting on your lap right now.

Fading,
like the wind and the water washing the beach clean
erasing the footprints
of lovers and friends, loners, wanderers, staggering drunks
and every combination of them.

The drunken friends,
the wandering lovers,
the lonely strong and the lonely lost.

Gone,
but not forgotten.
Always just a whisper.
A reminder.
That familiar force
that travelled miles and miles for you
settling right down in your living room before dinner,
ignoring the guests who arrived late and drank too much.

The scent of the hibiscus trapped deep within your nose.

The occasional call
or letter.

Something that barely scratches the surface.
How could it?

The transmission line is severed.
The information is passed on clouds;
heavy grey masses and light wisps that slowly dissipate with the shining sun of each new day.

Another chance to love, another.

Each other.