When I step into the shower my feet leave perfect impressions behind, the curve of each toe etched in remnants of where I've gone and when I've come back before I lift my foot and the water trickles down and washes it away. I close my eyes; I hate to see it go.
One foot in front of the other down the path, over leaves and roots and sticks and mud. One foot and then the other until the top of the hill meets the heel and the toe. I stand on a log in the middle of the trees and watch the shadows move over the leaves.
My feet pace the ground and marks form where we brush against each other. Footprints on the ground, earth on my skin, cold on my face. I'm not entirely sure my heart isn't pumping mud, pushing earth through what used to be iron and plasma. There's dirt on my feet and I'm not sure how it got there.
"Where have you been?" says one foot to the other.
"Out in the woods, of course," the other calls back.
"But why did you leave?"
"I had to. I'm not really sure."