This, a barefoot year. This a year of loose pants and hooded sweatshirts, this a year of boots lonely and left waiting in front halls and back closets, this a year of untouched luggage. I miss my boots, miss the ground they tread upon, I miss the laces and the pulling snug, miss the smell of leather when scented with Scottish rain and decaying leaves. I miss the me that filled those boots, the wanderlust and hope pulsing like blood running thick, I miss tired legs leading to worn out feet, I miss washing away a day of adventure in the shower before bed.
On We Pull The Boots | 3.3.21
On We Pull The Boots | 3.3.21
On We Pull The Boots | 3.3.21
This, a barefoot year. This a year of loose pants and hooded sweatshirts, this a year of boots lonely and left waiting in front halls and back closets, this a year of untouched luggage. I miss my boots, miss the ground they tread upon, I miss the laces and the pulling snug, miss the smell of leather when scented with Scottish rain and decaying leaves. I miss the me that filled those boots, the wanderlust and hope pulsing like blood running thick, I miss tired legs leading to worn out feet, I miss washing away a day of adventure in the shower before bed.