I dream of you in gauzy velvet, a heart that hushes like snowfall into softened hands. Will you cradle it? Poetically? Intimately? Like amorphous sunbeams cradle trembling butterflies? Don’t let me fold through your fingers, don’t snip my stanzas; Wildflowers are beautiful because they are liberated, possessing something that Roses envy and Daffodils carry in fleeting mockery. So admire my petals, my hips, my stem and leaves, but leave me in the dirt to grow; I do not belong on your windowsill, I will wilt in a crystalline vause. But bothered by mine own desires I find myself an ivy, trickling up your skin to find slivers I might sink into. I have grown used to searching, thereby Asters weep in lieu of eyes. I should weep, were it for you; so cradle me, in the soil, cradle me.
— something i wrote in a letter
