I took a writing class and the instructor said my words read like a painting. I took a painting class and the instructor said my paintings swirled like poetry. everything I created whispered your name; a testimony that my fragile wrists could make our war of a love look so damn beautiful. but you’d laugh because you know I never could keep my hands steady enough to paint you out of the picture. but you’d laugh because you know I never had my shit well enough together to make anything beautiful on purpose.
when she asked what kind of love inspired me to paint cherry blossom trees instead of weeping willows I said, “the kind of love that blooms so quick and delicately that by the time you get your camera, the petals have already fallen.”//d.a.h (via whisperingbones)
