You Can’t Touch Love, Love Touches You
Pockets believed all important things should fit in a pocket.
He tried to pocket a sunbeam—whoosh. It slipped through his fingers, warm and bright, but gone in an instant.
He tried to catch a breeze—whoooo. It tickled his nose, teasing, before darting away.
He cupped an echo—“Hello!”—but echoes, like memories, don’t sit still.
He even scooped a rainbow off the pond—drip, drop, gone.
He checked his pockets. Still empty.
One afternoon, while he sat on a mossy log, lost in thought, a girl skipped along the path. Her name was Mukur. Her laugh rang like little bells, her eyes sparkled like fireflies waking up in the dusk.
“Why the long face?” she asked, her voice like the breeze itself.
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