So there I was, lying on the floor of the cavern, thinking, drinking in the scent of those leaves that were dying to become mulch for next year's growth. Thinking of those fingers and thumbs, the first set, that had proded clumsily where they were not wanted, then those second fingers, that had expertly picked the scabs from the healing wounds, leaving them raw, painful, exposed again, before leaving laughing and joking, not seeing me as I lay crying, from more than just this.
But as I lay there, thinking, grieving, breathing, crying, laughing, living; they healed again. Leaving no scab to be picked, just the scar to betray the pain once suffered.
And I pulled myself to my feet and ventured off into unknown parts again; enjoying the thrill of exploration alone in the dark, treachorous cave. And then came another set of fingers and thumbs, another guide and fellow traveller touching me softly in the dark, weaving a story of life and love and strangers together in a hilarious blanket of comfort and fun.
Had I learnt to be cautious? To judge with eyes of suspicion and mistrust?
I will trust till given cause not to.
And dance and weave with my companion until it is time for us to part...