Sometimes it takes too long to deicide, and then the moment is gone, taking off like some butterfly fluttering away from you over the summer garden to land on some distant flower far out of your reach.
The moment when that butterfly could have been taken gently in your cupped hands so you could feel it fluttering against your palms is over, gone, just like that moment when she looked through the crowded room and seemed to notice only you. You should have gone to her then; but now the room seems bare without her, like the flower after the brightly coloured slowly flickering butterfly has taken to the air and just become a rapidly fading blur in the distance.
She walked away, out of your life, probably thinking that you were just another one of those butterfly collectors that reach out to capture, only to pin them to another empty space in your collection.
You, though, were looking for something more than just another specimen to add to your collection of memories, another bright moment that you could pore over when you were alone. You wanted to take something of her summer into your hands and feel the living heartbeat of her pressing against your skin for as long as she would be content to stay with you, before flying away back into her own summer of freedom.
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