Falling.
That's what she'd been doing for the last 20 years.
Falling was easy, effortless, fearless; with every praise, every critique, every glance, she fell further and further.
Falling was bliss; she had no worries, no troubles, just tender dreams and those rare and few moments with him.
Falling led to landing; it was up to her whether she landed on her feet or on her head, whether she stumbled or she walked.
Landing was terrifying, risky, disappointing, and extremely difficult; the ground rose as she fell faster and harder, eager to possess her, to hold her down, to catch her in bone-crushing arms.
Her eyes closed. She took a breath. Felt the air slapping against her skin. Smelled the musk of the damp earth. Let the grass tickle her cheeks.
Then stopped.
Her eyes opened, one, and then the other; she felt the arms, knew their warmth and safety under her legs and against her back. She tilted her head, and was met with the moon, a smile dancing faintly across his lips, the stars twinkling in his inky eyes.
Landing was unnecessary.