The gusts of wind are her.
They blow her down from the clouds, from the trees, from her fantasies.
They blow her coat off, her warmth off, her melancholy off, the rain off her lips.
The grey mists fill her lungs again, the twigs turn into arms and hold onto her, tight, and comforting, the fence closes in.
The mud stains her clothes, and she smiles.
She smiles, for the first time, she actually smiles, and laughs, of joy, and soon, falls into the cold water under her feet.


Dear Dreamer,
I promise I won't, ever, for I know how it feels.
I promise I won't write it down, I won't mention it, I will just sit in your chair, Dreamer, I promise I won't be jealous anymore, for I know, you do truly love me more then the red balloon, and I hope that wasn't a lie, but I think I know you well enough that you wouldn't lie about those kind of things.
Your dreams fascinate me, I wonder where they come from, I wonder what you are looking at right now, what you are feeling, what you are hearing, what you are dreaming, you told me to remember that, no matter what, you are always dreaming about me, though, I find that hard to believe...

Even though I am also dreaming about you,
The Promiser.