"so she sat and waited for it to end. she had been waiting as long as she could remember, but it never ended. not as she knew of that was. she would sometimes walk out in the cover of the night and run in the streets. and at those times there would be friends and laughter and flashlights in the quiet alleyways. but afterwards she would always go home again, alone. and she would sit and wait.

i met her one slow afternoon, when the sun had just set and the soft summerwinds swept over paris. she sat at a cafe drinking dry and crisp white wine. she had a midnight blue dress on, and her feet was covered in purple sandals. i think it was the purple sandals that did it for me... so i sat down quietly beside her.

she would laugh towards me sometimes, and in that glow would i bask. sometimes i would ask her what she was waiting for. but she would anly smile at me, and her eyes would glaze over. and in that distance i knew i was not the one. i loved her and would never hurt her again. but life is not always an afternoon in paris. so in the end, i left.

i was never the one to be her friend, and she knew that. so when i left, she didn't say a word. she didn't even cry.

do i ever wonder if she laugh towards someone else? if she is sitting at another cafe drinking crisp and dry white wine with someone else? if those feet is still clad with those purple sandals? i do. she was the first butterfly after a long cold winter. i miss her laughter and her quiet touch. but life is not a slow afternoon in paris."