When you ask him if he’s crying and he says it’s just dust in his eyes, believe him.
If you see marks echoed in their palms and their fists remain clenched, don’t pry their fingers open.
When you stand next to her inching closer and find the nimble shadow slipping away, stay.
If you suggest to witness the day end together and he escapes the watch of a sun drowning, let him go.
When you catch sight of the brittle leaves of autumn falling around her like a halo and she disagrees, don’t insist.
Listen, I say. For a time will come when all will change.
You’ll be trusted to wipe the dust from strained eyes, and the hand will loosen enough with a crawl childlike to hold yours. You’ll be gently astonished at the shadow that draws near, and there will be a company of two braving the nightfall. The face that once paled at the sight of death will regain its colour.
Listen, because too many people do the talking and are deaf to the voices that only the biggest of hearts will notice. There will be a time for speaking, but for now, listen.
P/S: And while they change, so will you. Move along even as you press your ear to the ground, for it is rude to stop and stare.