Gravity is in love with me.  I can tell, because when I move, it flirts shamelessly with me.  I feel the kiss of it on my toes and in my hair, and when I take a step it reaches up the insides of my thighs and tugs on the soles of my feet.  When I am happy it makes waterfalls laugh, and when I am sad, it makes the willows weep so I can weep with them.  At night I surrender my body to it, and I can feel it creep through my organs, gently kneading and displacing until, over time, I will be a lump of unmade dough.  Gravity is jealous of me when I tease it by jumping or climbing or flying, and when I stand at the edge of a cliff I can feel its anger as it threatens to embrace me to death.  Don’t worry, I whisper to it, someday my skin will sag, my back will crook, my knees will buckle, and I will belong to you.