He spoke to her once about a field of flowers and a warm spring day.
He, with his thoughts spilled onto paper, and she, with a sketchbook and pencil in hand.
And she pictured them there, with her head on his shoulder and his hand resting on her thigh.
She heard the contented chatter of birds and the slow, rhythmic hum of bees.
If she could describe happiness to you, it would be that vision he conjured up for her.
If she could take from all the possibilities, that moment would be the one she would bring into fruition.
And yet the world spins too quickly and it turns too slowly as she waits and waits for the dream to transact into memory.
Until the day comes when she can no longer tell the difference.
By Lang Leav