An empty box of Frosted Flakes

I could just see her, walking through the garden in nothing but a towel, in her bare feet, singing the songs that danced through her mind. She didn't know I was watching. Well, at least she didn't let on that she knew.

Her long golden hair gleamed in that cut throat, busted sunset and my splintered fingers strummed the strings of the guitar. I swear this thing is a demon in disguise, but each and every opportunity I have to play it, everything else that may be on the agenda for the evening is slightly delayed until I'm done.

I pretend that she can hear the words I'm singing to her, but I'm glad that she really can't. Coward, I know.

I watch her every time she dances in the garden. She looks so at peace there. She lets everything go for something that she loves to do. I wish I had the strength to let go to chase after what I love.

Twenty minutes passed in the blink of an eye. The phrases constructed in my mind will never be heard by her unless she danced over toward me. Which, sadly, she never will. Another song put to rest without her hearing the final product. Another tune placed in an empty box of Frosted Flakes, begging to be taken out some day.

There's always tomorrow.