Marcescent rosebuds quietly fell under the moonlit midnight blue.
“He loves me, he loves me not…” she pouted and contemplated.
“If only love can be cast with a spell,” she sighed as she gazed deep into the night. As if she was waiting for a sign or two.
“The spell is always found in the last place he’d look,” the sky spoke somewhere from the vast nook.
Wonderstruck and in eager, she looked above with bright-eyed.
“… and it’s been right in front of him all along,” the sky concluded.