Flowers on Sunday a Little

I guess the writing I share is quite personal.  I don’t think I disclose that much – but on the other hand, I have to tell someone – someone.

I feel far more exposed trying to make something beautiful to look at, than looking for words to say I miss the particulars of someone’s skin or breath, or other features I know only by imagining.  Those things can be told and shown – whether anyone actually reads them or not.  Of course, I’m afraid you’ll know – but I’m more afraid you won’t know how deep I fell, or that I could fall again with just the gentlest squeeze of your hand.

But I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing with the pictures.  The impossible loveliness always on the edges of the frame, always a little shy.  It’s there when I close my eyes and remember your smile, and I can never quite show that feeling of the sun spreading in my heart, except for the flowers.

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