It was just a photograph, yellowed with age, preserved carefully in a trunk that was never opened, with other broken dreams; preserved with care between her flowery pink journal, scribbled with blue ink, the voice of the broken dreams. A moment frozen in eternity, kept fresh by nostalgia.
It was all that took to set the waterworks running.
They both knew, right from the beginning, that it was never going to work. But they wanted a little more: some more time together, one more stolen kiss, one more moment of togetherness.
Even today that is all her heart aches for.
One more moment in the green meadow, with the hills echoing with laughter.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.