Feet sunk in the moist grass;
The sun is the friend, they tell me.
It's winter and we're waiting.
White trees, white roads, white faces.
I saw it; you were peeking through your seed.
Caught you before you could hide.
You're fragile.
Rough around the edges but fragile.
You're my favourite colour too.
Blue.
Your stem is thinner than most of them.
But I like it. You don't.
You're growing knowing the winds could uproot you any second. I like that. Wish I was as brave as you.
The trees are no longer white, or the roads, or the faces.
The colour is coming back. But I liked it when it was only three shades of sorrow.
The grass is losing its kindness.
Tall and dry, it stands.
The sun is the friend, they tell us.
Liars.
You've hidden back into your seed.
I miss you but you told me before leaving this is how you are.
I don't get it.
You're beautiful under the light so why hide.
I'm waiting.
They are telling me it's not my job to worry.
I don't like that.
Don't like that one bit.
I snuck by your flower bed.
And then I saw the weeds.
They were all around you.
I didn't know what to do. I still don't.
Is that why you hide?
You don't tell me why.
I don't know your sorrow.
But I know your pain.
If I remove you of those weeds, will you be the same? I hope so.
But you don't tell me.
You won't tell me.
I won't ask if you won't tell me.
It's winter again and I'm waiting.
They tell me the prettiest flowers bloom last.
I'm still waiting.
(although i've posted this in my other book Dear Beautiful, i think it is only fitting to post it here again c:)
