In an instant, the world would’ve been mine. But the wrong words were spoken and she looked away. I tried to steal back her gaze from the vaudevillian leaves, from the raindrops that fleeted across patches of shadow and the amber butterfly perched lightly on a lonely twig, both wings folding to a calm close. It was futile.
I cannot believe now that she might ever change her mind. Words are both a man’s wine and poison. I had sought to serve her the finest wine, but too much I stirred and into poison it became, and she retreated. I doubt she can ever return to that state of unawareness; to then when she received everything in innocent delight and cared little about how the wine might taste or about the character whom proffers the glass.
In an instant, I had lost it all.