Sons and Flowers
We know what love is not
love is not holding on so tightly you leave bruises
love is not digging your own grave to build him a garden
love is not the tides to his emotions, pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling
love is a pale white tulip,
Pinched until pink tinges its petals, like her cheeks when they first met. Love is the butterflies collected in jars on window sills, beauty in a bottle
love is pure
love is appreciation
love is not picking a flower for your own
love
is blooming along side him, drunk on the breeze of life
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