I lost myself on purpose in the glint of her eyes,
a flash of her smile and the joyous vibrations
set in motion by the contagiousness of her laughter.
An evening given by each other, to each other for
no purpose other than to mend the broken threads
of heart stings carelessly cut by the knives and
daggers of others.

Of lovers.

Those past reflections seem magnified in tear filled eyes;
blurred and bulbous, blown out of proportion, but still
significant in their weight when tied to a thread so thin.

Her hand found mine near the edge of the table, or maybe
my hand found her's. Something about such synchronicity.

Such simplicity.

Golden flames radiated from the flowery centerpiece.
The scent of a garden in spring time; the warmth of
the sun smiling happily as if it were a child again.
I could smell her sunshine as she warmed my skin. I
could feel hope rise with a quickening pulse. Perhaps
life could hold the promise of those youthful dreams.

Or so it seems.

And when the coffee was set, the night was nearing its
close. Soon we would walk under the starry skies, and
the moon's judging eyes. The unwilling separation of
love and laughter into separate lives. But a thread
mended and another thread tied, hope restored and a kiss
to taste the sugary sweetness of her lips. Let the moon
watch what it has seen in the streets, the fields and
in between. Hearts need hearts to mend.

Happiness should know no end.