Sometimes I would want for him to open up to me…Instead of assuming what goes on in his mind I would want him to just tell me.
He’s like a bundled package… taped up so tight that I can’t tear it open…
A novel… so heavily constructed from the first chapter, to the last, all the way down to the Author’s notes.. that I’m just unable to comprehend with it’s scathed story line and unclear motives…
A song composed up of so many notes, melodies, and unfamiliar stanzas so complex for a beginner like me that no matter how much I practice… I can’t play it.
For one night, just one lonely night… I may have gotten a peek through his eyes… for if only a small moment in time; and maybe a few petals every now and then that tend to fall briskly towards my lingering fingers, just waiting.. if they’re lucky enough… to capture the small petal just to familiarize the silky texture in my skin before its crisp transition between my roughly nimble fingers…
But there’s still his hands in the way… hovering over my eyes… Not allowing me to see what he sees. There’s all these thorns protecting that wild flower peeling in this isolated bush where I've poked my fingers a numerous amount of times..attempting to pursue the peeling but just as quickly regenerating flower. The petals may drop and I may be able to catch them …. but they always slip and bury themselves beneath the surface of the ground that engulfs the roots of this isolated bush.
And these seeking fingers would reach up for another piece of the flower… But they remember the thorns… So they pull back. And they linger… Waiting for the petals that make their way through the cluttered thorns that love their stem so much…that they refuse separation unless blood is drawn. The fingers that linger… Wanting to remember the silky texture once more before slipping away… Are unable to add any stability to that guarded flower…
They’re unable to cradle the flower that depends on that stem planted in the bush attached to the depths of the earth… These lingering fingers can’t hold on to the flower but they can catch it’s plummeting petals… For if only a moment… And as they slip through those fingers the hand reaches up for another… But the hand remembers the thorn… And pulls back once more… Then the fingers reach for another loose petal while the rest trickle beneath the earth away from the lingerers…
My eyes rest on the heavily guarded… barely visible… soft but crisp flower … And I wait for every fallen petal… That at some point slips between my unsettled hands. However, these wandering petals don’t fall often… No not at all… But when they do they may come in multitudes or one…
Even though I can’t hold onto them… I watch that flower and hold out my hand; just waiting for every petal from that flower I can hold before they slip between my fingers; making their way beneath the earth while I waited for the next petal to brush my hungry fingertips as they fell from that guarded rose.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing