She sat there, the sun in her raven hair, baring her soul to him.
He sat there enchanted, nodding at all the right moments,
mentally ******* her.

'Why', he said.
'Because', she said 'I can't love anyone the way I loved you. Not even you'.

In the patience of the seed,
In the life waiting hushed beneath the snow,
In the longing of the night for dawn,
In the tiny tendril peeking through
a pavement crack,
In the little boy's terrified heart as she opens his note in class,
that wonderful thing: hope.

They kissed there for the very first time.
Their hearts pounding as the storm lashed the trees.
They made love there furtively on the grass.
The first humans to ever make love.
Five decades later, their grand kids stood there, a faded b/w picture in hand.

The old windmill smiled.

The soft silver in a grandma's hair.
The trophy purple of a love bruise.
The blushing pink of just kissed lips.
The unfathomable grey in a lover's eye.

Life gives you the colours.
Assemble your own rainbow.

'I love you', he said. 'But I am not in love with you'.
' Interesting', she said. 'You never bothered to clarify when you were on top of me'.