PTSD - 4: Move

His hooves make prints
paint the ground in u-shaped echoes,
the hard autumn runway
where waves lap sand.

We gallop through foam,
icy lake water
splashes my bare calves
rubbed hairless on
the insides
from holding on
tight,
his belly wide and strong,

Remembering ends
the day they took him away.

But not my skin,
every inch of flesh
a memory of touch--
thighs, calves
heels, hands--
of movement
of silent conversation.

Of losing him.