String

The red string. I braided ours. Cut it with the top of a soda bottle in the back of my dads car, on our way to the airport. I tied it to your right. You tied it to my left. Ripped the string and bound the knots on our fingers.

Whether you believe in it or not the string is strong and woven to keep us bonded from afar. It runs like blood. And it keeps pumping out that true color to remind me... in the rain, and in the hay. I can feel your heart.