A quaint house, off a secluded rocky beach.
Large Trees in the front yard,
A dog frolicking in the grass.
A soothing, gentle music
flows through an open window.
Her fingers glide gracefully over the keys.
A pause, her fingers cry for a break.
She brushes her beautiful brown hair,
From her soft, fair face.
Our eyes meet
She turns back to her music.
"I love this piece," I mention.
-No Reply-
She can not reply.
For I am not really there,
And "there" does not yet exist.
I am pulled back to reality.
To the arguing and the accusing and the spite.
I long for the day that I live in that quaint house,
with That One Girl of my dreams. |