metaphorically speaking

His boots are the color of sand.  worn in the creases from nimble movement made in places I'll never know and never really want to know.  the laces are long to snake around his ankles. ends tucked out of sight.  tightly wound.  old and familiar.  

I could so easily slip in my tiny feet, losing them in all of the dark space leftover.  I could rest my soles in the low grooves made by his.  soak up the stale desert sweat.  march around not to mock but to know.  to feel the rhythm in his step as though it were mine.  

He bought for me small lounging shoes, sporty and gray.  slight and suede.  holding one in the expanse of his hand, I recall the way he questioned its feasibility.  It lay perched, fragile in his palm.  a perfect size seven.

I would guess not but a fragment of his toe would settle inside. awkward terry walls tightening at the ball of foot.  he'd never try to fit them on. nor would he mimic my bohemian parade.  no reason for him to match my gait.  brief and strolling.  quick and deliberate.  running to halt to run again.    

He would huff, "they are your shoes.  walk."  and I would wear them both.  white laces bow tied, hidden within his jump boots.