The Meadow
1 (and only)
She watched the sun set over the distant hills, tainting the sky with a beautiful orange the way he had tainted her innocent heart. She still went to the meadow – their meadow – every evening, if only just to remember... not that she could forget.
The place was as steeped with memories as it used to be with dew, on the mornings when they would sneak out to lie on the feather grass and watch the sunrise through the azaleas. Their tradition had been as strong and as old as the pine trees that grew on the outskirts of the meadow. The breeze was as gentle as his touch had been against her skin, his palm on her cheek, his lips on hers.
She could feel it all over again, feel him, as she closed her eyes against the setting sun, breathing in the fragrance of a love lost temporarily misplaced; for she always knew he would return.
Each evening she went with a hope, an unfettered, unfounded hope that maybe - just maybe – he would be there. She counted the minutes as they went by, racing yet dragging at the same time, until the sun disappeared behind those hills and she was left with no choice but to accept it.
He was gone.
And each night, the meadow became even lonelier.
The place was as steeped with memories as it used to be with dew, on the mornings when they would sneak out to lie on the feather grass and watch the sunrise through the azaleas. Their tradition had been as strong and as old as the pine trees that grew on the outskirts of the meadow. The breeze was as gentle as his touch had been against her skin, his palm on her cheek, his lips on hers.
She could feel it all over again, feel him, as she closed her eyes against the setting sun, breathing in the fragrance of a love lost temporarily misplaced; for she always knew he would return.
Each evening she went with a hope, an unfettered, unfounded hope that maybe - just maybe – he would be there. She counted the minutes as they went by, racing yet dragging at the same time, until the sun disappeared behind those hills and she was left with no choice but to accept it.
He was gone.
And each night, the meadow became even lonelier.