Cinderella had her slipper, which was made of glass.
Something so small, yet, so delicate.

And I, much like Cinderella, have something made of glass.
Something so small, yet, oh so delicate.

It’s my heart.

And I think the clock just struck Midnight.
But only one of us can get our happily-ever-after.

And here’s a spoiler:

*It’s the broad with the wacky footwear.

Love will remember.

When it's permanently etched into the veins
of the leaves,
barely clinging onto the branches of the trees,
waving not goodbye,
but until next time.

When it's nestled into the u-shaped symbol
our mouths make when we feel something
so tremendously warm,
that we cannot contain it anymore.

When it's powdered in the snow by our footprints,
keeping our bodies from floating away,
no fear.

When our cold breaths catch in our throats
as the words are frozen,
replaced by the sounds of our rhythmic heart
beats,
loud enough to replace our need to ******* scream
our feelings.

Cold bodies, warm hearts.

lying for freedom
is it acceptable to walk
my bare feet across the floor
is it acceptable to walk
my bare self up to you?

my pathetic mortality
etched into every groove of
my delicately built body
opiates dance around
my mind
take take take
choose your ****** I choose bare hands
on chests and
violin strings

Something un-discernable
just beyond my mind’s eye

a feeling I can’t quite place

meanders, ethereal as
early morning mist
swirling through woods

delicate as ink on
ancient parchment
written with reed
by a chinese monk

beautiful in the way
only sadness
can be

one by one,
standing over soggy soil,
she plucked the delicacies
from their uprooted habitat;
the flower;
also, the soul
alleviated, you’d think
from its heavy petals;
duties of
innocence; image.

losing yourself is simple;
easy.
she knows this all too well.
the flower is her soul;
also, her surrogate
just as she once was
to a man,
the only difference being that
there was no soft ground
to break her multiple falls that
followed a slow spiral from
the light
of her flower-like innocence.

I live to see you look at me like I'm the most beautiful creature you've ever laid eyes on.
You brush my hair behind my ear gently and run your fingers along my cheek.
"You have the most beautiful ears.
Ears are such a strange thing to love about a person, but I do love them.
I love your ears. Little, delicate pixie ears.
My tiny manic pixie dream girl."
I live to hear that I'm yours.
I live to hear you say anything really

The listening stopped a while ago.
It’s like the monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just didn’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears.
It wasn’t always like that, though.
You used to deliver information to my being like you were the great Giving Tree.
And I was a nearby flower.
A delicate, nearby flower.
A flower that went about its normal routines, such as photosynthesis or pollination or other flower things.
Ah, those flower things.
To me they are everything.
This flower would blossom in the spring and wither in the winter.
I would spend my flower days in the summer breathing in the glowing sunlight and living my flower life.
And in the fall, I would spend my flower nights rocking in the breeze, waiting for winter to come and bring me my renewal period.
I would look with my flower eyes toward you, the great Giving Tree.
Tall and ***** like the unstoppable force.
And I, there on the ground, the immovable object.
Your knowledge was so delightful at first.
It lit up my surrounding flower world more than the Sun ever could.
Your knowledge would come at all hours of the day, no matter rain or shine.
I remember once a long time ago when I was a little, tiny flower.
It was raining on my little tiny flower head.
But you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The rain that would beat pitter-patter on my pedals.
The water that would run down my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak up the water my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
And then there was the time when I was an older, bigger flower.
The Sun was shining on my older, bigger flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The sunlight that shine zig-zag on my pedals.
The shadow that would cast from my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak in the sunlight my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
But now I am a current, normal flower.
The world is passing by my current, normal flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
You with your knowledge….
Said nothing to me, your son.
I didn’t know what to take in.
So I did just what you didn’t say.
And I just kept watching the world float by you, great Giving Tree.
You, the unstoppable force.
And I just kept watching the world float by me, the delicate flower.
Me, the immovable object.
And for the rest of our days you said nothing to me.
You don’t pass your knowledge to me, your delicate flower son.
Your immovable object.
And I stop listening to you, my great Giving Tree.
My unstoppable force.
The monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just don’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears anymore.
The relationship we had has faded away.
But I had a feeling neither of us would win when we first met.

“Because you know what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object.”