With her it was all too easy, life slowed to a crawl. She held an ability to shift time. One moment it was summer, the next, autumn. I was seventeen again, holding her hand and watching leaves fly.
Even then, I knew, there is always a winter. How I had waited for her return. I had loved her. Sometimes, she had loved me back.
The rhythm of time ticks on with an undeniable force. Once more, autumn turns to winter. As thread slips through a needle, I stitched the tapestry of my life. There were others, some more beautiful. Through it all, she remained a distant memory: my rose, her spent petals softly falling to the floor.
~excerpt from a scene, draft