Dried Flowers

Dried Flowers,

This is not a love letter, but it comes from a place of love. It comes from warm memories of that which may have been and what seems will never be. Lingering notes of sensual thoughts brush the sensitive surface of my mind – a soft caress of connected interest moves then races inward, through layers of confusion, disillusion - I find - something I can’t define, but I know it, I breathe it. I feel it and hope to express what It holds without words I hope it radiates through my, your - deceitful exterior so that what’s seen and understood is real, cleansing my aura of desire, of insatiable lust – must, just won’t - go. Hurts to know what isn’t can’t be – loves to feel all possibility, a profound appreciation, a longing to keep going, can’t stop yearning, wishing leaves me unsteady on my feet and glassy-eyed. Hopes this isn’t too much and that it makes some sense. I feel a kind of love, though this is not a love letter – I love whatever it is, I love the experience – I yearn and dream and live inward what outwardly is not expressed. And I didn’t know if I should share because something unrequited can live in the heart until it rots - when its overripe odor becomes the only and most unbearable expression of vulnerability. So I hope this is more like dried flowers – of the wild and unmanaged sort – who’s perfume lingers on the edges of petals still beautiful to the mind and memory but much too fragile to touch.

Love,