Meadow

Love. Blooms as a rose, or a blossom in the springtime. Fresh dew on blades of grass, like diamonds in the early morning mist.

She walks, barefoot to a grassy clearing in the woods; dew drops sprinkle her blood red painted toes, daisies kiss her ankles. She stands still and listens to the chirping and whistling of early birds, filling the otherwise heavy silence through the trees.



She breathes in the sweet smell of dawn; closes her eyes and dreams of ballerina steps and love hearts, wishes and tears, joy and bittersweet pain. And then she remembers. Remembers his kiss, remembers his touch, remembers their passion, remembers the way she can still smell him when she flips her hair, and her heart opens up. If he were here now, perhaps he could smell the sunlight on her skin. And there are tulips and daffodils and buttercups. And melancholy all but disappears and hides away. For a while.

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