I think I'd like to have a flower box that's overgrown with haphazardly growing blooms and which frames the tattered shutters of my pink house. I think I'd like to open these rattling windows wide, as the sunset cast its orange shadow across the cobblestoned street below, and beckon you to come in from playing. you would kiss your playmates and race in, dirty-faced and sticky with late summer sweat, and the sounds of night taking over the town would fill the staircases. somewhere inside is a oversized table draped with fancy lace for no reason at all, a bowl of cherries holding it in place. and candles drip onto a desk in the corner building back a mound only recently chipped away. the smells of lavender from the garden and orange marmalade linger on my fingertips as I finish a letter to that certain someone, traveling too far from me that week. you'd come close to rub your cheek against mine, those ever-darkening curls tickling my nose, and for a moment it would seem like it had always been that way. soon enough, you'd beeline for the kitchen, ravenous and eager to explore freshly stocked cupboards, and pour a second glass of wine, drinking in the long road to delight.