He was her first love. He was the wonder and magic of her childhood. He with his bare feet and unkempt temper; he blinked away the fanged tree shadows and night wall-whispers with his soft, kind eyes. She loved him, loved him - and then she didn't.
For she left the forest, grew up, became sensible. She found real magic. And she learned from other sensible people that he had stolen this magic, claimed it was his, destroyed the first magicians. He went against everything she wanted to believe in.
All her new friends disdained him. And so it was that she could not return to him or else she would lose who she had become and what she had mindfully chosen to love. Sometimes he came to sit beside her and she could feel the heart he still had for her. Sometimes she cried for him in the dark. But it was overly far now for her to reach across - she knew too much.
He, however, knew her heart. And whenever she was tired, he was there to lay his hands beneath her feet. And whenever she was burning, he wept to bring cool relief. And one night under a thousand stars she made a wish and he sang to her the wonder of her childhood, unforgotten, undiscarded. And she fell for him all over again. She went home to the wild, impatient boy with his eyes like the evening sky. His gentle, love-coloured eyes. She brought flowers for his mother, taken out of hedges and grass - tiny, feral flowers, for innocence. And despite everything she had been taught, she chose love.
Intelligence doesn't always tell us what's true, only what we want to be true. The heart can be a wiser source of understanding. And the heart knows magic does not belong to anyone, it is the melody of the universe, and anyone may dance to it as best suits them. There's only one fundamental thing: love. If you don't feel it, try a new dance, or an old dance, or a dance no one has ever seen before, until your spirit comes into harmony with it. Life will be there to take your hand, dance with you.