The Cracks

They dance in the whisper of the wind, they say. Gold of hair and wild of eyes peering playfully through the cracks in the concrete, pushing pebbles into the cracks in your shoes and laughing as you limp away. They're not cruel; not kind. Sometimes they catch hold of the tips of your toes when you walk, tripping you up no matter how certain your stride, unaware of the crack of your arm as you land a little too heavily.
They're fascinated by people, you've heard. Sometimes they reach from the corners of walls or the doorways and scrape their tiny fingernails across your skin, just to see how it peels and reddens. Sometimes they see your shoelaces and tug, unraveling them at best and knocking you over at worse. They don't mean to skin your hands when you hit the ground, but the way you hurt is fascinating.
They're curious little things. Muddy-grey skin and jagged stone teeth pulling into sharp smiles as they find you in the alleyway. They sit on your shoulders and watch your tears with curiosity, reaching out to touch them with fingers made of dandelion roots and staring at the way the liquid beads and trails down your cheeks. They don't know what it means and you don't know they're there, but when they leave you feel a little lighter, like something has reached into your veins and kissed your heart's wounds.
When they see him shout, they know what it means. They watch through the cracks, waiting and watching, and those salty-wet streaks are on your face again. Now they understand. They catch hold of the tips of his toes when he storms away, tripping up his certain stride, and they grin as he lands a little too heavily.