Love, I know it is here. It surrounds us all. Yet, it still seems unreachable. Everyday I reach for the branches of the trees but they are too far, too high. The leaves stare at me from above, lingering, but eventually fly by as if they are saying goodbye.

The mud below tries to pull me in and I run. I run past it all. I run through the tall trees and hear empty noises scream at me. But what do they say? What do they want?

I listen more closely. They say nothing. I keep walking until I reach the end. There are no sticks, no brush from the trees beside me. The trees are too tall, and the mud, too drowning. The screams, gone, I am without leaves, without branches, without noise. I am just, there, torn.

Dear Circle,

I’ve met a triangle,
I’ve chatted with a pentagon.
Seen some squares,
And some rectangles.
But, you’re still not here.

I’ve always wanted one shape,
Just one shape.
These other squares,
Rectangles and triangles
They still have sides.

But, me,
I have no points,
No angles.
No edges.

With room for you in my center,
Where are you, my circle?
I’m ready to hold you
And forget all the shapes with sides.

I’ll keep looking but,
Oh, if I find you, circle
Will you be mine?

I stood in the hallway
Seeing a reflection,
A reflection of a body
Lone, and frightened.

Always
Questioning,
Yearning
To see a reflection of
Two souls.

Walking further,
My bed stared, empty.
Your sounds forever echoed
In the sharp silence.
Your face forever painted on
The color of my sheets.

Stuck, I was hesitant.

But, today, I lay my hand
Along my bedside
No longer seeing your reflection.
Merely a whisper remains,
And the sinking void
Of your body, your smell,
And your mind.

The void, never again to be filled
By you, by the same reflection
But, still,
I need you
Want you
By my bedside

I have always been an artist.
I have used paint,
The tip of a paintbrush,
The oils and
The watercolors.

I have mixed the yellows
With the greens,
Touched the canvas,
Smelled the fumes.
I have always been an artist.

My paints, ready,
In front of a new canvas,
In front of you.
But, the colors
So foreign
The strokes
So heavy.

The canvas, cold
My fingers, shaking
My vision, empty.

This new painting,
Blank and screaming,
Frightens.
It is looking at me,
Boldly. And new.

I am blind.
With an empty hand,
I look at you,
Thinking,
I have always been an artist.

But, white, dry, and colorless
You remain.
And I question,
Am I still the artist?

She watched as the man picked the petals off of the flower. "How devastating," she thought, worried it may soon wilt. She looked closer at it as it stood up vibrantly in the man's hands, free of the leaves. The woman then realized the flower was no longer suffocating, but blooming, blooming quickly, and was so utterly alive in that moment.