She rests her face on the moist earth and closes her big bright eyes. she lets out the most musical sigh, the kind that makes you feel like everything is alright.
You of my stormy dreams and fantasies, with fever burning your skin, I am your captive… and you of my clear sunny afternoons, with your childlike smile, I am your captive too. In the evenings I am free to mourn yesterlove, where the afternoons had something of the night and nights something of the afternoons. How our destinies became entwined in a dance both most pleasurable and cruel.
She opens her eyes and there is some secret sorrow in them. I close my eyes, because I recognize it. It’s my sorrow too. We shall mourn in the evening. I pick up my guitar and strum her a song.
Story Of The Footloose 