As artists
We want to hold on to our creation forever
We want the reader to interpret our art with our intention
We want to control
But the truth is
Once we release our art into the world
It becomes common property
And belongs to the world
We do not get to dictate
How our art will be received
Or whether the viewer must laugh
Or cry
Or become nostalgic
The purpose of art
Is to let it go

Her freckles reminded me something like splattered paint gifted from the sun.  

Her red hair can ignite like fire when she is happy.

She's like a warm campfire everyone likes to sit around,
Surrounded with laughs that echo in the forest.

She's the sunrise you get up early for,
Waiting in the cold.
Waiting to bask in all the colors and light because it's worth it.

She is fire.
She is heat and happiness.

She is like the sun,
A reason for people to get out of bed in the morning.

A beacon that draws everyone in.

It was one of those nights that instead of feeling as bright
as all the other stars that had been pin-pricked into the sky,

I felt more like the blackened blue stretch behind them
because tonight,
I just flickered out of existence.