Fireflies put on a furtive show at the far end of the pond. For Devon they remained as muted and unseen as the stars above. The sky of his youth, a great humid expanse above Spanish Moss and winding creeks, now seemed flat and unimpressive. Celestial ribbons of light in a far off land held his mind, tortured his heart.

His clenched fists quietly said, I’m not ready to talk.

Feet stilled and legs locked spoke softly, But I’m not going anywhere.

Finally his head bowed, eyes shutting slowly, as if to whisper, I can’t find the answers.

She sat, dainty fingers toying with thin blades of grass, fragiles pieces to the lawn’s monochromatic mosaic. Blade after blade snapped in her finger, the greater expanse of green likely to never notice the fallen members. Damp seeped to her skin, a numbing reminder of reality.

Her mouth, a delicate slit of velvet remained closed to say, I respect your pensiveness.

Her breath, barely controlled, spoke volumes, I’m afraid.

She sat as if to assure, I’m here.