with the windflowers;

The forest? No, I don’t want to live anywhere else. I don’t want to even imagine it! The trees are so green, with their buds and their paper-thin leaves. And the light playing in the glades. And the butterflies... They are sisters, dancing in a rain of the finest dust. The air here, it’s clear and clean. You can see everything, feel everything as if it’s seeping into your very skin. When I walk over the forest floor, slowly slowly the windflowers take root in my feet and for every step, my body turns more and more weightless till I turn with it. My gait into mincing. You would feel it, too! How high you can soar, when the breeze carries the warm scent of pure soil and caresses your back in the ticklish places where your shoulder blades are sprouting wings --

But humans don’t have wings. It’s true, they can learn to dance, if you sing songs to their feet and inspire their hands. Then they will come to understand, little by little. She could, if she’d look up at last. Since I would let my wings lift her burdens and both our weights. Even if it’s only a few inches over ground. A few inches, at the most. It’s enough. Nothing more. Because concrete doesn’t grow windflowers and the smell of gas is so very heavy. It’s the coldest, iciest of thoughts, but if I were to drop her... The concrete makes for such a hard surface, unforgiving of dance and vindictive of flight. She would hurt herself. Just from those few inches. I would have made her.

So I won’t leave the forest. I don’t want to! I love its simple nature. I’ll just keep dancing with the butterflies in the clover, to learn her steps in advance. And when I’ve danced, I’ll practice with the birds, spread my wings amongst the treetops that they build their nests in. While waiting for her to glimpse all these colours, it’s important that I become stronger and strong enough to take her with me.

Before we can dance and fly and the windflowers adorn her dark hair.