One summer morning, you sat by the willow.
A book, lazily draped over bare knees.
The meaning of time lost among branches.
Closed, your eyes were.
I watched you, intently from afar.
The dry summer breeze filtered by blonde strands.
One summer morning, you did not see me there.
Maybe you felt my presence.
I felt a flutter of the heart.
Time meant nothing to me.
Seconds, then minutes, passed by.
One summer morning, I sat by the willow.
Hoping, in futile earnest, for you to arrive.
You never came.
It was one morning.