"She's like a flower."
"Don't people pick flowers and keep them?"
"She's a wild flower in a field. If I pick her, eventually she will die," I reply. "This is where she belongs."
This is how he showed he loved her. Not expressing it in that he had to have her as soon as he fell in love with her. But in knowing where she'll bloom best. He admired her from where she was. That is how he loved her.
YOU ARE READING
Finding Joy
PoetryI never spent time seeking joy. I only spent time making a bed comfortable enough in sadness to bare it. Now, I'll see and work at finding joy. This is a continuation of "We Are the Normal Ones: Memoirs of a Fallen Human".
