To my friends who can write fresh-smelling bouquets of words with splendid color, I offer my envy. Mine are the blunt, stunted words, rooted in the cracks in pavement, or forcing their way to light around overbearing rocks. Some useful in their own way, edible or flavorful, some with a pedestrian beauty, but few that one would bring home in a bunch with a box of candy. More appropriate in a grimy, young fist crumpled in love, destined to be vased in a water glass by a doting mother, or shredded petal by petal for the sake of soothsaying... he loves me, he loves me not.
The beauty of your words takes my breath away some days. Thank you.