I remember too 

Your bare feet follow a familiar path, footprints illuminated by the waning sun. You notice a fallen tree here, an overflowing patch of berries there, evidence of a life before this stolen pocket of time.

As you walk, you remember. You remember the time you climbed so high up a tree you became a bird in flight, leaping from treetop to treetop. You remember being ankle deep in mud, lunging for a gleaming gemstone and taking me down with you when you realized it was just the sparkle of the sun upon the crystal stream. You remember the time I said I could never return, our shared tears watering a bush we had picked clean of your favorite blackberries.

The crest of the hill comes sooner than your childish feet recall. The earth which was once solid crumbles to a fine sand in your hand, as you wait for me. Finally, when the moon burns brighter than any star in the sky, you hear my fingers scrambling to find purchase on the final rock which shades our sacred knoll. I return to my place, just to your left, close enough to merge our finite warmth. The language of a shared childhood stutters back to life, a drop of water trickling down my parched tongue.

Once our throats grow rough from old stories, our eyelids heavy from lost years, our kingdom welcomes us once again with open arms. Her damp soil cradles our soft bodies, fireflies dotting the air like scattered golden stars. My eyes slide closed, for dreams aren’t meant to last but you stay here as long as you can.

If you squint, you think you can see the sun again.