A.A. Milne's Intuition and the Magic In Nothing-Else-To-Do.

“This is where we are,” I said, as I aimlessly threw pebbles to my left... and my hand ripped grass, the destruction of Spring and the creation of happiness as we gathered ourselves in the midst of nothing-to-do, my nails recovered dirt as my palms discovered life and he took.my.hand. carelessly, without thought, as if it was the only thing to do... I checked my knees for bruises and found the fading black and blue of Pennsylvania, the pattern resembled the horizon we gazed at beyond the cliffs where my feet felt slightly unsure and my fear of heights dared me to step one inch closer to the edge, I had watched him and found his fearlessness to be divine as he went two inches and ignored the rocks I had payed close attention to race to the bottom of nowhere as if to find the somewhere that existed... beneath us... I gazed up into sunshine and followed the trail of Saturday clouds, dreams scattering themselves, their shapes secrets that hid in the middle pages of picture books, and I imagined us as my tongue spoke the wisdom of A.A. Milne and thought about the intuitiveness of childhood, I smiled, and inched closer to his side... “Here we are,” he sighed, slipping his hand underneath the back pocket of my favorite tattered blue jeans, and as his fingers fumbled with the frays in my fabric, he kissed me, once, on the lips, a Saturday quiet where only we existed in the time it took breath to meld and touch, and settle weeks beneath skin in the slight chill of April, and I nodded as the sky watched us and thought.. we'd make a beautiful picture book, we'd settle in the middle of a page whispering secrets that could create the smile that spoke of youth.